


Assassin's Creed Novelization

by MirrorandImage



Series: Assassin's Creed Novelization [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin/Templar Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Gen, Historical Accuracy (Mostly), Novelization, Third Crusade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2020-05-20 05:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 222,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorandImage/pseuds/MirrorandImage
Summary: Desmond wakes up a captive of some strange lab experiment looking through these strange memories of an ancestor of his named Altair ibn La-Ahad. Rated for Desmond's mouth and Altair's violence.





	1. Nothing Is True

"I have applied my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceive that this also was a chasing of the wind, for in much wisdom, there is much grief. And he who increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow..."

**Part One: Nothing is True**

There were...

There was...

_people walls fountains merchants rugs target where was the target roofs and running and dodging the guards and can't hide nowhere to hide no vigilantes to help all alone_

He thought...

He felt...

_anger hurt betrayal how could he do this where was he which one which one pain and agony and broken trust knowledge versus sorrow was increasing_

Breathe, breath!

"We've got a problem. I can't anchor him to the memory; too much psychological trauma, he's rejecting the memory. He's retreating."

"Desmond I need to you try and relax."

"Let me try and stabilize him."

_the smell of chickens and dogs and rotting garbage and feces and sand in the wind sound of people and water and jugs and cries for help he had to help it was part of the creed only no one was there he was all alone and the targets were everywhere the feeling of dried sweat mixed with sand and mud and matted hair and bleached cotton the weight of the sword at his hip and the dagger at his back and the blade at his wrist that replaced the missing finger and_

Jesus Christ! He was missing a fucking finger!

"Focus. Listen to the sound of my voice. Recognize that what you're seeing isn't real, just a picture of the past. It can't hurt you."

"Damn it. It's not working."

"Give it a moment, Miss Stillman. He'll adjust; the first time is never easy."

_only he wasn't and he was at the same time and none of it made any sense and his home had been raped and he could never make up for his failure and forgiveness would never be his and that traitorous bastard was going to die only no one had betrayed him he had betrayed everyone they had a right to look down on him because he had run away but then why was he home and why was home a fortress and not the farm and he hadn't run away he had broken the creed and what the fuck was happening to him_

"We're losing him."

"That's enough, Miss Stillman!"

_there was a mountain and a city and a port and another city and there was blood on his hands and people screaming people walking all around him bumping into him please sir can you spare a few coins faceless guards were watching him diseased men running away from him a blond looking over him worried eyes only the women were in the garden and they wore scarves and skin and it never interested him because he had more important things to do he did as he was told and it was all for naught because knowledge and sorrow all lead to madness and he was going fucking mad and_

"We need to pull him out. Now."

"All right Desmond, we're going to try and bring you out now."

* * *

Desmond's eyes snapped open, his head jerking up to pull himself up to a sitting position, only his forehead careened into some kind of visor over his head. Air sucked into his lungs and his arms flung weakly out to the edges of the... whatever he was on; a blank ceiling stared at him and there were voices. Voices he thought he might now.

"There? See? I told you he'd be fine."

An old man, tall, grizzled, and a voice entirely too smooth to be real.

Images were still flashing back and forth in his head, guards and women and old men and blood so much blood crowds and running and, and...

"Bastard!" Desmond cursed, still disoriented, still struggling for air, still half lost in that fucking _whatever it was_.

"Now, now," the man said, voice oily and smooth and placating. "I just saved your life." More images filled Desmond's head, ones that made infinitely more sense: leaving the bar, the unmarked van, the injection of... of... He remembered enough.

"Saved my life?" he growled, struggling to sit up. His muscles weren't as weak as before, the disorientation was fading. He felt more like himself. Swinging his legs over the edge of the... the... He glared at the old fart for all he was worth. "You kidnapped me! You strapped me into that... that... thing!"

The old man lifted an eyebrow, his face the picture of amusement and superiority. "Animus," he corrected. "That is the Animus."

Desmond would not be deterred. "I don't even know you people! What did I ever do to deserve this?"

And, like he was talking to a child, the stupid old man continued in calm neutral tones. "You have information that we need, Mr. Miles," he said.

"Information?" Desmond retorted. "I'm a _bartender_ for Christ's sake! What do you need to know, how to mix a martini? Maybe a cosmo?"

The old man's face fell flat, the humor gone from his voice and his tone - however smooth - suddenly became much more menacing. "We know who you are, Mr. Miles," he said in cold tones. "We know _what_ you are."

Something about it chilled Desmond. He realized that they maybe did know, and that scared him. Scared him shitless. He refused to show it, however, and somehow managed a shaky (if unconvincing), "I don't know what you're talking about."

The menacing old man's eyes narrowed. "Don't play coy with me, there isn't time. You're an _Assassin_. And whether you realize it or not, you have what my employers want, locked away in that head of yours."

Any list of ideas sprung into Desmond's head of what to do, rejected one after another. Confronted with the fact that these people did know his heritage, he realized he knew utterly nothing about them. There was no wiggle room, not way to play the field, no aces to play, no information to use. Some of his teachings flashed in his head, how to break a neck, a kick to the groin, using pressure points to knock someone out. He'd been out of practice for years; his body was in shape but didn't have the muscle memory to pull any of it off gracefully. But he could do it. But... that was what Assassins did; and, ultimately,

"I'm not an assassin," he ground out, bitter. "Not any more."

And that meant he was helpless. Far better to play along. Until he _did_ have some kind of upper hand. Until he _did_ have information. Knowledge would give him the power to act.

"Yes," the old prick drew out, smug again, "your file indicated as much. Something about an escape."

... Christ, did they know _everything_?

"Most fortunate for us," the old fart added, all smarmy again.

Desmond resorted to growling. Again. "What do you want from me?"

"For you to do as you're told," the lab coat said. "The Animus will allow us to locate what we need. Once we have it, you'll be free to go."

Sure he would.

Desmond glared, the urge to resist flaring in his brain again. The idea of being plugged back into that, that _thing_ \- blood and deserts and chickens and a missing _fucking_ finger - put an edge to his voice. Not quite a growl, he was resigned to his imprisonment for now, but perhaps it could be labeled as childish independence. "I am _not_ going back in there!" _Surely_ he could get information without ending up in that _thing_ again.

But the old man brushed an invisible hair off the lapel of his lab coat, his smooth voice hard and menacing again. "Then, we'll induce a coma and continue our work. When we're done you'll be left to die." He stared with hard, almost impatient eyes at Desmond to make his point; not that he needed to. The bartender knew he had no cards to play, and right now staying alive was a priority. Alive meant learning. Learning meant power. Power meant escape.

Taking his silence as an answer, the old fart smiled again. "Truthfully," he said, "the only reason you're still conscious is because the approach saves us time."

Cornered, Desmond reached out for some kind of barb. "You're insane." It was a weak jibe, it did nothing to affect his situation, but he said it anyway. He needed to feel like he was fighting, even with nothing else but his attitude. He wanted to trick himself into thinking he had any kind of shot.

He was running away, in a sense. But then, he'd always been good at that.

The doctor or whatever wasn't even fazed. "Lie down," he commanded.

And, out of options - never having _had_ any options - Desmond complied.

The visor from before slid out from somewhere over his field of vision, a stylized triangle, maybe an A, the well-known symbol of Abstergo the pharmaceutical company, appeared as the system started to boot up. He looked to the blond, reticent up to that point, but she didn't meet his eyes as she continued to tap away at a keyboard. He felt pressure in the back of his skull, right where it met the spinal cord, and something hummed underneath him, making the oddly shaped table vibrate slightly. Heat emanated from somewhere. Desmond couldn't quite understand how any of it was working, and he still didn't get how those deserts had anything to do with what they were looking for. They weren't the deserts of his home; they looked nothing like the farm...

The grizzled lab coat saw the confusion on his face, and in a grandiose gesture of false sympathy, he explained.

Memories. Recollections of past events. Pictures and sensations and emotions captured in the brain. But while personal memories were stored in the brain, ancestral memories were imprinted in DNA. The reason birds could migrate, bears knew when to hibernate, how any species always seemed to mate in spring, all of it could be traced to genetic memory. Instinct was, in point of fact, memories of previous generations of animals, the living species playing out what hundreds of generations before were telling it to do - absent the requisite experience. The doctor had spent thirty years studying it. DNA was more than a glorified parts-list for the human body; it was an archive of experience from previous genetic donors. The Animus, somehow, decoded the DNA and constructed the memories in real time, projecting it to several different media - Desmond's sensory center of the brain, for example, to an MPEG file recording, for another, and apparently several other ways, too; for further decoding of course.

"But there's a problem," the blond said, finally speaking. Stillman, right? Desmond couldn't figure out why he knew that. Her voice was warm, much more approachable than doctor prick. His eyes finally met hers, but she quickly looked away, turning to the screen and tapping a command. "Here's the memory we're trying to access," she said, and the visor, filled with loading images up to that point, suddenly displayed a long string of DNA straightening out to form a line of bars, almost like a horizontal ladder. One bar on the far right glowed white, highlighted. Above it was a small string of text: memory locked.

"Unfortunately, every time we try to access the memory, your mind withdraws."

Knowledge and sorrow...

Desmond frowned.

"You lack the confidence to step into your ancestor's body."

Desmond looked at her. Did they find that _surprising_ or something?

Her face changed again, a micro-expression that Desmond had been taught to look for, but he couldn't recognize the emotion, and it was gone in a flash and she was still talking. "That's what happened earlier. You got knocked out of the target memory and pushed back to a more stable state."

He glanced at the lab coat and decided she was infinitely more approachable. "... Why?" he asked, hoping she wouldn't be smarmy in her answer.

She shrugged. "Your subconscious. When people undergo hypnosis to relive traumatic events, they, too, resist the memory and have to start farther back. Your mind is doing the same thing. In order to relive it you, like they, have to be eased in." She looked away again. Was it guilt? Desmond wasn't sure. "Even then there can be problems."

Wanting to sound cooperative, he asked, "So... how do you fix it?"

"We start at an earlier memory, one you _can_ synchronize with, and move forward from there." She offered a small, almost sad smile, and the micro-expression crossed her features again. "You'll get used to it," she offered. She turned and left Desmond's field of vision. "This is the closest we can get," she said, one of the DNA bars highlighting, "I'll upload the tutorial program now."

Seriously? These guys had a freakin' _tutorial_?

Then everything went white.

* * *

As a plus (if anything about this could be considered a plus) the disorientation wasn't _quite_ as bad as the first time. At least he didn't have a flood of images and people and voices and _smells_ assaulting him. That didn't stop him from pitching forward, however, his knees banging against the ground and his hands shooting out to catch himself.

His... his hands...

He had thought the hallucination before had been, er, well a glitch or something; but there, his left hand, it was indeed missing a finger. He was missing a _fucking_ finger...! Adrenaline from panic started to flood his brain as he stared at the missing appendage, his mind repeating, "It's not real it's not real _it's not real_ ," over and over until he could find something vaguely resembling calm. When his breathing evened and he could manage linear thought, Desmond leaned back on his knees and looked at his hands.

The ring finger was a stub, cut at a small knuckle and only barely poked out of fingerless gloves. He tugged at the glove trying to see it better. Skin had folded over the amputation; the scarring was clean and healed but not yet faded with time. Desmond tried to remember when the scar on his mouth had looked like this, but he had gotten it so long ago he couldn't place it. Maybe it was a few years old...? But he had all his fingers when he lay down on the glorified table.

Frowning, Desmond flexed the fingers on his hand, trying to concentrate on the sensations. The hand, _his_ hand responded exactly as he wanted it to, he could sense the motion and yet, further away, in a disconnected corner of his mind, he could feel muscles twitching on cool metal, and he knew, somehow, that he wasn't really moving. He could just feel the metal, the pressure on the base of his skull.

The sensations dispersed like mist, however, when his flexing hand suddenly sprouted a knife.

"Shit..." he cursed and brought his focus back to his hand, and he realized that the missing finger was only the beginning of the changes. Strapped to his wrist was a gauntlet of some kind, metal bracers belted to his forearm while some kind of mechanism was hidden under the leather straps, and from it protruded a metal blade. Fumbling, he wiggled his wrist and hands again, trying to figure out what he'd done to make the blade appear. It snapped back into is hidden sheath with a soft grating sound.

The rest of him was just as screwed up as his arm. His uniform had been stripped of him in a "thorough search for weapons," he had vague memories of through the drugs they'd pumped him with, and he'd been left with spares. But the loose fitting stained jeans and grey sweatshirt were gone, replaced with some kind for freaky white skirt.

Standing up, Desmond realized it wasn't a skirt but ridiculously elongated coattails. Everything seemed to be made of some kind of cotton - he wasn't an expert - except for a silk looking red sash, mostly hidden by no less than three layers of leather belts. A gauntlet was on his other arm, and leather shin guards were strapped to his legs. And... he was wearing a hood.

"What the hell is this?" he muttered.

 _"It's your avatar,"_ a feminine, disembodied voice said. Desmond startled, looking around. He was surrounded by off-white fog, drifting all around him. He could see no edges or walls, only bits of flying, er, he wanted to call it code. He recognized protein structures and bits of algebraic formulas and greek symbols and other pieces, though none of it seemed connected in any way.

"Where am I?" he asked, wondering if he was saying it here if he was also saying it in that washed out room.

 _"You're in the construct now,"_ she explained. Stillman, wasn't it? _"It's a loading screen you wait in it while the Animus is buffering the DNA it's decoding. Memories are sometimes fuzzy; it isn't a perfect science, so what the Animus does is construct a simulation based on the information it finds. In other words, when this is done loading you'll find yourself at some kind of location, and then you'll have to do something to trigger a memory."_

"Trigger a memory?" Desmond asked, disbelieving. "How the _hell_ do I do that?"

 _"How does anyone trigger a memory?"_ the smarmy doctor dick asked. _"You can trigger it manually, of course, but that doesn't work with genetic memory. Not at first, any way. So you'll have to do something that triggers nostalgia, which then triggers the memory. For example, that destitute bar you worked at probably holds many memories for you, and going there would trigger them. The smell of a Bloody Mary may remind you of a particular customer. The lyrics of a song may remind you of an old girlfriend. The very act of shaking out a martini could remind you of something. That is what the construct inside the Animus is for."_

"I don't understand," Desmond said, too lost to put any attitude in his voice. He felt very isolated in the damnable white fog.

The girl replied, _"You're going back to the year eleven-ninety-one."_ Shit that was a long time ago! _"I don't think they were mixing martinis back then, but the act of riding horseback or the sight of a particular city square could trigger a memory. Once the Animus is done buffering, you can experiment until the memory is triggered."_

 _"Might I recommend killing a few guards?"_ the old fart suggested. _"You are, after all, an Assassin. I hear assassinations were very public in those days. Maybe listening to the screams of innocent men and women dying, people running from you in terror will trigger a memory."_

"Dickhead," Desmond muttered. Louder, he said, "So let me get this straight. The Animus is going to load some snapshot of the past and I just wander around aimlessly until a memory is triggered?"

_"Yes."_

"Well, gee, this will be quick."

Stillman said, _"Buffering complete. Let's see what's loaded."_

And the white fog slowly transitioned. The ground at his feet became slightly uneven, everything darkened, the infinite sense of space shrank to narrow and confined. Water dripped onto his shoulder, there was the sensation of cool and damp. Torch lights in darkness, a silhouette in the distance.

Desmond blinked, sucking in a breath. That felt so _weird_. He didn't have words for it.

"Okay," he muttered. "Project: Wander Aimlessly Like an Idiot: begin."

Yeah, it sounded stupid even when he said it out loud. He looked around and recognized that he was in a tunnel, narrow and recently created. The support beams looked new and lacked the rot of years spent in a damp environment. Cast iron sconces held torches. Frowning, Desmond turned around and looked behind him. Two men were at his back, one dressed exactly as he was, the other wearing the grey hood of a lower rank.

Wait, lower rank?

Desmond studied the faces, what he could see of them under the hoods. They were brothers, maybe, or cousins. No, they were brothers, the brothers A-Sayf: Malik, just one rank under him; and Kadar, a journeyman, midranked. And Kadar died so young...

"... How do I know this?" he whispered.

Kadar was looking at him in awe, eyes wide and mouth parted in an O, but Malik looked concerned, perhaps even irate.

_"No, there must be another way. This man need not die!"_

Desmond blinked. What?

And it felt like he was receding, he turned around vaguely back to the tunnel and there was a ma _n there so small so insignificant he was just in the way and it would hardly mean anything no one would miss him..._

* * *

Altair ibn La-Ahad saw the miner, a peasant. Looking around he could see no other tunnels around to bypass the probable witness. A glance behind him saw Malik, too, was eyeing other tunnels. Kadar was studying the man, eyes wide as they always were, making him look younger than he actually was. He glanced to Altair in askance.

Useless. The boy didn't know what to do. How did he ever get as high in rank as he was? The choice was obvious.

Frown pressed into his features, Altair marched forward with purpose. If there were no ways around, then he would have to _make_ a way.

Malik's voice pleaded behind him, "No, there must be another way. This man need not die!"

Altair did not heed him, the miner was small and insignificant, and now he was simply in the way. No one would miss him and it would hardly matter regardless.

On silent feet he marched forward, invisible even in his white robes, grabbing the man's shoulder and forcing him to his knees by kicking the back of his legs. His hidden blade extracted, he held the weapon over his head, eyes calculating the best point of entry, before plunging it into the soft tissue of his neck, scraping against a major artery and penetrating deeper, behind the collarbone and ribcage, and eviscerating a lung. Any one of these injuries would be lethal, but Altair was nothing if not thorough. Blood spurt out, warm and wet and meaningless, and then the miner simply fell, dead.

"An excellent kill," Kadar said, staring first at the body and then at Altair, his eyes were even wider, now, awe caressing his face. As he should, Altair supposed, he had witnessed the work of a master assassin, after all. The thought was ruined, however, when Kadar added, "Fortune favors your blade."

"Not fortune," Altair corrected. "Skill." He grinned, then, looking at the younger man and glancing at the infuriated Malik. "Watch a while longer and you might learn something."

Kadar's face blossomed with opportunity as he thought about it, but Malik of course was quick to weed it out.

"Indeed," he said, his voice bitter and angry, "He'll teach you how to disregard everything the Master has taught us." He glared at Altair.

The master assassin glared right back; that was not the retort he was expecting, and he suddenly found himself feeling defensive. "And how would _you_ have done it?" he demanded.

Kadar watched between the two, uncertain if he should say something.

" _I_ would not have drawn attention to us," Malik said, "I would not have taken the life of an innocent." He gestured to the body at their feet, as if it were somehow distasteful. Altair failed to understand what was wrong about it. "What _I_ would have done is follow the Creed."

That only caused Altair to feel anger. Was he suggesting...?

" 'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted,' " he recited in retaliation. "Understand these words: it matters _not_ how we complete our task, only that it is _done_."

Malik was already interrupting him. "But this is not the way of-"

Altair interrupted _him_. " _My_ way is better."

The two glared at each other, emotions firing back and forth. He had not seen Malik in years; he had not expected this kind of reception. The air was charged, neither man wanting to back down, bitterness swelling between them.

Then, finally, "I will scout ahead," Malik said, glancing at his brother and slowly turning his back. "Try not to dishonor us further," he tossed over his shoulder, his voice self-satisfied and smug. Altair glared after him, his golden eyes nearly melting the darkness around him.

Kadar was still glancing back and forth between the two, torn between loyalty to his brother and admiration of the master assassin. Struggling, he found a neutral topic and turned to Altair. "What is our mission?" he asked. "My brother would say nothing to me, only that I should feel honored to be invited."

In but a blink the anger boiled away, locked up for later, and Altair refocused on the mission. This then, was Kadar's test; if he did well he would raise another rank in the brotherhood. He recited the details to the journeyman: that Al Mualim believed the Knights Templar had found something under the mount of Solomon's Temple. Kadar's eyes brightened at the thought of treasure, young and naïve and still able to dream about adventure. Altair was quick to cut him off; what it was, was unimportant. The only thing that mattered was that the Master needed it. It was an Assassin's job to do the Teacher's bidding, and Altair had little else to believe in these days. Templar corruption seemed to spread everywhere, even into the ranks of the Assassin's. Just a year ago Altair had been forced to kill Al Mualim's second in command for his betrayal; the kill was still painful, even now, and Altair refused to think on it. All he could do was trust in his master, the one man above the motives of the Templars.

The two began to run together, down the tunnel after Malik, the older brother's white shadow could just be seen in the distance as he scouted. The shaft was uneven and had large sections that had no torchlight. It bothered Altair little, his eyes keen and focus so narrow he was like an eagle, hopping from one support beam to another in absolute confidence as Kadar slowly fell behind, graceful but less certain of his footing.

When they had caught up to Malik the younger brother asked, "How is it that you can do that?"

"I say again," Altair said, "Skill."

Kadar grinned, making him look even younger, and Altair found a smirk on his scarred face before he schooled the expression. At least one of them had not changed.

The three scampered up a ladder and down another shaft, all three weary of how close they were to the enemy. Malik stayed several meters ahead, his head swiveling this way and that, on the lookout. Altair did the same, his keen eyes missing nothing. Kadar looked at them both in awe but played his part, scanning what he could see.

Up another ladder and the tunnel gave way to a more structured façade, the dirt replaced with stonework; a torch showing ancient designs and columns. At a doorway stood a guard, his back to them.

Altair glanced at Malik, daring him to beg the man's life, but the other assassin nodded his head, agreeing that the death was necessary. Nodding in return, Altair once more crept forward on silent feet. This man was more alert than the peasant, guards always had some level of training, and so Altair quickly wrapped his arm around the man's neck, hand over the mouth, and plunged his hidden blade into the man's back, below the shoulder blade and between ribs and chinks of armor. The guard gave a low, gurgled grunt before slumping to the ground.

Malik and Kadar stepped past him, Altair taking the rear and looking for people who might spy the body, but none followed, and after another few minutes of traveling the tunnels they met their obvious destination.

Below them was a great room, still only half dug out, scaffolding and support beams littering the stone façade. There were narrow columns and pictures in relief, depicting what, Altair did not know nor did he care. In the center of the far wall, above the Roman archway, two torches bore light to a great golden box, old designs, perhaps hieroglyphics, decorating it's sides. Atop it was a stylized flower, maybe an egg, sitting with great pomp.

"That must be the Ark," Malik said, staring at the golden box.

Kadar gasped. "The... Ark of the Covenant?" he whispered, incredulous and wondrous at the same time.

Did they actually believe the old legends?

"Don't be silly, there's no such thing," Altair corrected. "It's just a story."

Kadar looked incredulous; his face so like his brother's Altair had to work to not to double take. "Then what is it?" he demanded, pointing to the golden box and egg.

"Quiet!" Malik hissed, peering over the edge of the ledge they stood on and spying three shadows approaching. The three Assassins turned invisible in the dark with trained skill.

The leader, head shaven, marched in, barking orders in a thick accent. French? His grey cloak did little to hide the heavy chain mail armor, nor the white smock bearing a blood red cross. Templars!

"I want us through this gate before sunrise!" he commanded, the four Templars following him nodding like obedient dogs. They were clearly of lower rank, their red crosses not emblazoned on white smocks bur rather painted onto their small plates of armor. They bore no red helmets, either.

"The sooner we possess it," the leader was saying, "the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf."

"Masyaf..." Malik breathed, his silhouette betraying the sudden tension in his body.

Altair had a different realization: "Robert de Sable," he growled. There were rumors that a new Grand Master of the Knights Templar had at last been elected after Altair had killed Basilisk. Basilisk was the carryover Grand Master while the knights bickered over who would take over after the capture and beheading of Gerard de Ridefort. Robert de Sable was well known to the Saracens and Crusaders both for his strategy and string of victories along the Palestinian coast. And now he was _here_? Altair snarled, "His life is _mine_."

Malik's head snapped up. "No. We were asked to retrieve the treasure and deal with de Sable only if it was necessary." His hands were up, as if trying to placate Altair.

It only made him dig his heels in.

"He stands between us and it, I would say it is necessary," he said, frustrated.

"Discretion, Altair!" Malik hissed.

The master assassin scoffed. "You mean cowardice! That man is our greatest enemy, and here we have a chance to be rid of him."

Malik stood to his full height, not as tall as Altair but powerful nonetheless. Kadar looked between them again, uncertain what to do. "You have already broken two tenets of our Creed; now you would break the third? Do no compromise the Brotherhood!" His voice almost echoed in the large cavern, such power he put in his whispers.

Altair had had enough. "I am your superior, in both title _and_ ability." He glared, showing his anger instead of his hurt. How could Malik doubt him? "You should know better than to question me."

And with that he leapt over the edge of the ledge, grabbing the sides of a ladder and keeping his grip just loose enough to control his fall down to the bottom of the cavern dozens of feet below. Then, he boldly marched into the torchlight, visible for all to see. "Hold, Templars!" he called out to the cluster, the group having been pouring over a parchment of some kind. "You are not the only ones with business here."

De Sable only glanced at the white robes and red sash before smiling.

"Ah," he said, "Well, this explains my missing man."

His underlings fanned out, hands clutching the hilts of their swords. Behind him Altair could hear the brothers A-Sayf join him, one at either side. He could picture Malik's glare if he cared to, but his focus was entirely on the Grand Master, bloodlust slowly filling his veins.

De Sable eyed the other two, his sneer fading only slightly. "And what is it you want?" he demanded.

"Blood," he answered simply.

He raced forward, only faintly hearing a pleading, "No!" only barely feeling a hand reach out to try and stop him but he would not be deterred, he would not fail, he would end the conflict at this moment! With the Templars dead Richard's forces would be weakened and the Crusaders would finally be driven out and maybe then, maybe _then_ they would learn to stop pointless bloodshed and end their quest for artifacts and people like Adha. Blood pulsed in his head, red haze clouding his sight but not his vision, and he dashed forward faster than any could stop, hidden blade piercing through his fist where a finger was supposed to be.

An elbow, de Sable's elbow, rammed into his face, distracting him just enough so the Templar's free had grasped his wrist. Altair pushed, snarling, determined to see blood. He angled his arm; the blade was mere inches from his enemy's throat. Victory would be his!

"You know not the things in which you meddle, assassin," de Sable whispered. "I spare you only that you may return to your master, and deliver a message." A massive hand gripped Altair's throat, choking him, driving him back. Both fought for favorable footing. He was loosing ground but still he persisted. This man would die!

"The Holy Land is lost to him and his. He should flee now while he has the chance. Stay, and all of you will die."

And then the pressure on his neck disappeared, and the sudden lack of resistance pitched Altair forward. De Sable used that momentum and swung Altair to the side, away from him. Altair tried to roll with it but in their struggle de Sable had angled him towards some of the support structure. Before he could complete the recovery he crashed into something, and suddenly his vision was blurred with dirt and rocks and rubble and the sounds of crashing and then instead of recovering he was dodging as the Grecian pillars fell. Standing, he shook his head of the dirt and dust and fought to get his bearings. The support scaffolding had collapsed, the entrance of the temple now in ruin before him. He pressed himself against the rubble, straining his ears.

"Men!" de Sable. "To arms! Kill the assassins!"

Swords drawing, metal against metal, grunts and screams.

And then: painful, empty, silence.

They were dead. Malik and Kadar were _dead_. Altair stared at the stone slabs, for a moment uncomprehending. _They were dead_.

Growling, he pounded his fist into the rubble, a useless slap against tons of weight. He did it again. And again and again, before he took a ragged breath and forced himself to turn around. If he was the only one left, then he had to get back to Masyaf, back to the assassins, back to Al Mualim. He had to know.

This section of the ruin was only partially built, poles stuck up for no reason, not yet connected to scaffolding, stone structures peeking out of the earth like missing limbs, and Altair scaled all of it, burying his regret, his loss. He hardened his heart, refusing to feel pain.

He had already felt enough of it.

He saw light above him, and as he crested a vertical stone wall he saw the late evening sun pouring it's last rays ov _er the city of_

* * *

_"Fast forwarding memory to a more recent one."_

"What the hell?" Desmond demanded. "What happens next?"

Stillman's voice filtered into his ears. _"Don't worry. We're just skipping over the memories of travel."_

 _"Indeed,"_ the grizzly old fart said. _"We're not here for an extraneous jaunt down memory lane, we're looking for something much more specific. The less time we waste, the better."_

Desmond frowned, but knew there was nothing to do.

* * *

Altair subconsciously took his time at the stables unsaddling his horse and brushing her down. Invariably his thoughts turned to the brothers A-Sayf: Malik and Kadar. He and Malik were age-mates; they grew up together in Masyaf, chasing imaginary enemies and hitting each other with practice wands and sneaking around the markets with all the skill of half trained seven year olds possessed. They had spent every day together until their fourteenth year when they were apprenticed out to the other cities, Malik to Damascus and Altair to Jerusalem. Their letters to each other had gradually faded, both becoming absorbed in the training, the small missions and reports and lessons the city _rafiq_ offered.

Malik was one of the brightest students of their age group. While Altair had a skill for language and writing, Malik not only excelled at that but the mathematics and the sciences as well. The master assassin often teased Malik, saying that if his head became too full he would be top-heavy and forever fall on his face. Malik in turn said that if Altair's head became too empty he would trip over a rock for not knowing its purpose. They were young and competitive and close - as close as brothers. But now, not anymore. Their angry words that day scraped at Altair, he did not want to leave on bad terms, but now he could not reconcile, and he knew their fight would haunt him, tainting his fond memories of the other man.

Kadar, Altair had vague memories of a small wide-eyed child always watching his brother, and so he was surprised when the boy had been apprenticed to Jerusalem. By then, Altair was already a senior assassin, many exploits under his leather belts and taking missions out of the city. He only saw the boy occasionally, but knew Kadar was surrounded by the stories of Altair's adventures as told by the other journeymen. His respect whenever Altair was at the Bureau was obvious.

Kadar... he was not useless as Altair had thought him that day. His wide eyes and innocent face made him a skilled informant and spy. He _listened_ , and his mind was as bright as Malik's. With the right training he would have been skilled at seeing patterns, a rare skill highly coveted by many. His lack of experience was his only hindrance, and now his future had been ripped from him.

Fortune did not favor Altair's blade, as Kadar had suggested, but it was not skill as Altair had bragged; if there was he could have prevented their deaths.

At last he put the brush away, his motions jerky and violent, and he marched out of the stables, his face black as his mood. As if their deaths did not weigh him enough, he would now have to face the disappointment of his Master, the one man he saw as a father.

He entered the gates of Masyaf, not even glancing at the journeymen at attention, entering the small town.

"Altair! You've returned!"

Altair turned slightly to see an all too familiar man leaning against a fenced in tree. "Rauf," he greeted. He did not want to talk.

"It is good to see you unharmed," Rauf said genially, walking up to the master assassin. Despite being a sword master, he was perennially warm and welcoming outside of the practice ring. He also seemed determined to make conversation. "I trust your mission was a success," he said with complete confidence.

"... Is the Master in his tower?" Altair asked, looking away.

"Yes, yes. Buried in his books as always. No doubt he expects you."

"My thanks, brother."

"Safety and peace, Altair," Rauf said, tone warm but his eyes changing; he saw something in the reticent Assassin that Altair did not want to be seen. And yet, at that moment, Altair did not want to take for granted another friend, never knowing when one would die.

"On you as well," he said simply, hoping it would be enough.

Masyaf was small compared to the great cities of the Holy Land, a simple town carved into the base of a mountain. The winters were harsh and unforgiving, the ridges sharp and vertical. Buildings were butted up against sheer faces, squares and the one market were small and uneven in shape, but it was home. Assassins knew every corner, every wall, every haystack and bench. _Rafiq_ and _dai_ , the nobility of the brotherhood, were side by side with merchants and basket weavers and potters and goat herders. Shepherds bought supplies here, children played here, and most important of all, they had fresh and clean water from winter's runoff. They did not have to worry about bitter or tainted water, substitute it for wine as the cities did. Their minds were always clear and their actions always deliberate.

Altair hiked up the steep main road, passing villagers and homes and dozens of trees that offered blessed shade against the approaching summer's heat. Members of the order would occasionally nod to him but Altair bade no response, he had but one goal in mind: talk to the Master.

Much higher up the mountain he saw the order's flags, marking the end of the village and the beginning of the brotherhood. Here was the training, the practice ring, the library, the quarters, the armory, the last stand of the order. Altair was not a man of wishes, but he hoped that they would never fight here. It was not Holy, but for him it was sacred ground. The fortress was an enormous, imposing structure, and Altair took a moment to just look up at it, appreciating it, before refocusing and continuing his hike. There were no villagers here, everyone walking in or out of the fortress wore the red sash of the brotherhood, some with chain mail of the guards, some with the dark robes of _rafiq_ , some journeymen, some simply novices, but all of them trained under the Master himself.

At the fortress gate, another man assaulted him with conversation.

"Ah, he returns at last."

"... Abbas," Altair greeted.

The other assassin looked theatrically behind Altair. "Where are the others? Did you ride ahead hoping to be the first one back?" He glared at the master assassin, antagonism radiating off his body. "I know you are loath to share the glory."

There was no glory to be had over the failure. That Abbas would suggest it only made Altair glare at the man.

He grinned, happy, "Silence is just another form of assent."

"Have you nothing better to do?" Altair demanded.

"I bring word from the Master: He waits for you in the library."

Altair nodded and started to walk past the other assassin.

"Best hurry," Abbas said, following him. "No doubt you're eager to put your tongue to his boot."

"Another word and I'll put my blade to your throat," Altair threatened, wanting to be rid of the man.

"There'll be plenty of time for that later, _brother_ ," Abbas said, falling away and joining a small cluster of other assassins. Altair could hear his barbed comments and the raucous laughter of the others, but he paid it no heed. He had other worries on his mind.

Entering the main courtyard Altair walked around the training ring, Rauf's second home, and up the sloped stairs to the main building of the fortress. A guard at the door bowed to him, mumbling a polite, "It is an honor," as Altair brushed passed. The library was filled with scholars, marked with their white cloaks. Guards were everywhere, this was the sanctuary of the Master, the Teacher, the Leader of the Order: Al Mualim.

"The Master waits within," one of them said.

Altair ascended the stairs, giving but a glance out the glass windows to the gardens below. Up another flight and through the shelves' narrow pathways and he was at another great glass window, large and ornate, looking out over the center courtyard of the fortress. Framing it were assassin flags, in front of it was a table, filled with rolls of parchment and scrolls and books. By it was a pigeon coup for messenger birds. And at it was the Master himself.

Al Mualim was a tall, wizened man. Beard white and long, one scarred eye was milky white with blindness. He wore the dark robe of a _dai_ , but darker still, a pure black that even the sun could not bleach, and his hood was over his head.

"Altair," he said, turning to face his most prized student.

"Master."

"Come forward. Tell me of your mission," he gestured, his voice as warm, or as warm as it could ever be for the distance he held to everyone. "I trust you have recovered the Templar's treasure."

"... There was some trouble, Master," Altair said, struggling to find words that could somehow soften this blow. "Robert de Sable was not alone."

"When does our work ever go as expected? It is our ability to adapt that makes us who we are," Al Mualim offered, still expressing confidence in Altair's abilities. The inherent praise only served to hurt Altair more, and his words were almost lost to him.

Still, he was able to offer, "This time it was not enough."

"What do you mean?"

"I have failed you."

Open shock. "The treasure?"

"... Lost to us."

"And Robert?"

"... Escaped."

Everything changed. Al Mualim's face contorted and his words suddenly became hard and biting. "I send you, my best man, to complete a mission that is more important than _any_ that has come before. And you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses."

"I did-"

"Do not speak! Not another word!" Al Mualim turned, his anger contained for the moment as his mind began once more to work. Altair could not look at him, kept his head down in shame and deference. All he could do was wait. "... This is not what I expected; we'll need to mount another force."

A chance at restitution, perhaps? "I swear to you I'll find him," Altair said. "I'll go and-"

"No! You do nothing; you've done enough!" Al Mualim hissed, anger briefly flaring at his disappointing student, but one again it vanished to the wind, his critical eye assessing Altair in a new light. He looked to either side of the top-ranked assassin. "... Where are Malik and Kadar?"

The answer was the longest yet in coming. Altair could not look up. "... Dead."

"No, not dead."

Master and student both turned, startled, to see a third figure approach, the whites of a senior assassin stained heavily with blood. The man clutched his arm, hanging limply at his side. Altair could not school his expression; shock was blatant on his face.

Malik. _Malik! Alive!_

"Malik," Al Mualim said, his voice painfully neutral.

"I still live at least!" his voice hoarse and dry, he had not had water for days, mostly likely had rode without stopping when he was strong enough to travel. Altair was impressed, this on top of his relief and shock and concern and any other emotion that was vying for his attention. Alive!

"And your brother?" the Master asked.

"Gone," Malik grunted, his eyes pained before looking away; and Altair could only think of the face of that wide eyed teen, looking up at him in awe. The moment passed, however, and Malik threw a furious glare at Altair, throwing a finger up to point to him. "Because of _you!_ " he shouted, raw loss in his voice.

"Robert threw me from the room, there was no way back, nothing I could do." He had wanted to; _oh_ , how he had wanted to, but-

"Because you would not heed my warning!" Malik shouted, overriding Altair's words. He swayed on his feet but anger kept his going, kept his shouting. "All of this could have been avoided! And my brother... My brother would still be alive!" His voice cracked with grief and Altair could only stare. How? How could any of this have been avoided? Did he mean the death of the miner? Or...

Malik swayed on his feet again, legs almost buckling, but he held firm. It was as if the energy his anger generated was at last snuffed out. His voice was weary when he said, "Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today."

"... 'Nearly'?" Al Mualim asked, surprised once again.

"I've what your favored failed to find. Here," he said, pulling the decorated egg out of a pouch at his back. Bitterness over took him. "Take it; though it seems I've returned with more than just their treasure."

"Master! We are under attack!" A young apprentice said, dashing up the stairs in a panic. "Robert de Sable lays siege to Masyaf's village!"

Whatever thoughts the Master had were carefully hidden. He rubbed his long white beard, muttering to himself. "So he seeks a battle..." He paced about his table, deep in thought. Malik grabbed the edge of the railing, steadying himself; he had lost much blood, Altair determined, but knew better than to ask that he see a physician. Whatever else, Masyaf was safety for assassins, and Altair knew that the best way to help Malik would be to turn away the Templars.

The Master came to a decision. "Very well," he said, "I'll not deny him the battle. He turned to the young apprentice, his face as white as his _tagelmust_. "Go. Inform the others. The fortress must be prepared. The apprentice nodded and dashed off. Hard eyes turned to the top-ranked Assassin. "As for you, Altair, our discussion will have to wait. You must make for the village. Destroy these invaders, drive them form our home."

Altair bowed. "It will be done," he said, committed.

"How can you still trust him?" Malik demanded, his voice weak, "After what he's done?"

"Trust is irrelevant," the Teacher said, his blind eye glaring at Malik, "The fact remains that he is our best warrior, and now is the time that warriors are needed." He turned back to Altair. "Go."

"Yes, Master."

Altair leapt over the banister to carry out his orders.

It took an hour to pass word to the associated parties. Abbas took charge of the men in the citadel while Rauf was in charge of ferreting out the villagers and escorting them to safety. Altair checked from the tower to observe the curse de Sable. It was a small force, an insult to the order, with only one siege engine and one contingent of soldiers. The narrow pass of the Orontes Valley gave the assassins some advantage, and they were not without their defenses.

The siege began. Altair, done with his checks, ran down the fortress halls and outside to join the fight as Al Mualim had commanded. Running down the narrow path to the village he had to dodge running villagers and wounded men.

"Altair!" someone shouted, and the master assassin slowed to see Rauf, bloody but seemingly unharmed, dashing towards him with two men. "It's good you've come; we need your help."

"What's happened?" he demanded.

"Templars. They've broken through the main gate and are attacking the village. Most everyone has been evacuated. Most, but not all."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Distract the Templars. Keep them occupied while I rescue those still trapped."

"As you wish."

"Good," Rauf said. "I knew I could count on you; may fortune favor your blade!"

Kadar filled his mind, and Altair's steps seemed to grow faster.

Wounded were staggering up the path, some being helped by scholars or rafiqs, others alone. Blood filled the air and Altair knew he had little time. He had just reached the edge of the village when he saw a mass of Crusaders swinging wildly at the innocent villagers as they ran. The savagery only fueled Altair's anger, and he drew his sword while running. Someone saw the white terror racing towards them and shouted, "Assassin! Don't let him get away!" and the entire throng turned to the master assassin.

Fighting through the village Altair saw three different buildings on fire; the market fountain was red with blood. Their home was being raped.

That only made him fight harder.

At last he made his way to the main gate. The stables were ablaze and horses were running everywhere, panicked. The massive tree trunk-stakes that had surrounded the gates were in splinters, but strangely the gate itself was in once piece, hanging open and inviting.

Bloodlust filled Altair, and he lost himself in the fight, slashing, stabbing, dodging, parrying, breaking bones and piercing lungs, throwing knives, fountains of blood spraying wherever he went. Crusader soldiers had training, but they did not have metal; they were but peasants drafted by their distant king to fight in a distant land filled with distant enemies. Routed from their homes they did not have the spirit to battle, where the Saracens, and the brotherhood, had a much more personal attachment to the war. Altair was death walking, no one could break his tight guard as he slaughtered every armored body around him: slitting throats, stabbing armpits, snapping arms and legs so violently bone fragments flew in the air. Throwing knives suddenly erupted from eye sockets or collarbones, hands were shattered and weapons disarmed. This was Altair at his best: a living, breathing, fighting machine.

"Break off the attack and return to Masyaf!"

Abbas' booming voice carried over the screams and the death throws and Altair's own adrenaline. Altair had run out of Templars and was now looking at retreating assassins. He would not run away, he would finish this! The master assassin tried to bowl through his comrades, blood still throbbing in his veins, intent of killing his way to de Sable himself but his allies were too great in number. They grabbed him and all but dragged him away.

Abbas threw an unhindered punch at the assassin. "Al Mualim commands it!" he shouted, punching him again.

The red haze withdrew slightly, and, rubbing his chin, Altair nodded; frustrated the de Sable's life was so close and yet so far away. He would murder that Templar some day soon!

The retreat was slow with the Templars nipping at their heels. Altair had long run out of throwing knives, and combat needed to be much more selective. He could not blindly start a melee, he needed to give the others time to retreat, and so he would dash towards the Crusaders, swinging his sword wildly, scaring them almost to a halt, and then turn on his heel and run. When two or three managed to catch up to him he was draw his curved short sword and eviscerate them in front of their comrades, making his next dash to the chasing army even more weary.

Abbas had joined him at some point, egging on the Templars before displaying his own skill with the sword. At last, however, they cleared the fortress gates and the iron bars slammed closed.

The center courtyard was filled with refugees, the injured being treated by the scholars and physicians in the training circle. Women and children cried, the soldiers tried to be brave but were haunted. This was Masyaf, the one refuge of the assassins and yet they had lost so much ground. What was the Master planning?

Altair wished to know himself, and he all but ran around the ring and through the halls to the library, ready to carry out whatever order his Teacher had for him.

"Altair, come!" Rauf called. The master assassin paused, looking up to one of the defense towers to see the sword master. "Al Mualim's not done with us yet."

"Where are we going?" he asked, walking to a ladder and ascending to join Rauf.

"Up there," Rauf replied, pointing higher up the tower. "We've a surprise planned for our guests." The sword master offered a hand to help Altair up but the master assassin refused. Together, they climbed even further up the tower. "Just do as I do, it should become clear, soon enough," he added, a vicious grin in his voice.

He recognized immediately where he was going, and could hazard a rough guess on what the Master had planned. Rauf didn't need to tell him as they stood on the highest floor of the tower, three platforms extended out over the infinite expanse of the mountains below. The two confidently marched out onto the platforms, the wind billowing bout them, a third joining them soon after.

"Heretic!" de Sable could be heard cursing, sitting on a black warhorse and shouting up to the fortress. He had perhaps a hundred men with him. "Return what you have stolen from me!"

Altair grinned slightly, happy to see the man angry.

"You've no claim to it, Robert!" Al Mualim answered, Altair could not see from where. "Take yourself from here before I'm forced to thin your ranks further."

"You play a dangerous game!" de Sable spat.

"I assure you, this is no game."

"So be it!" de Sable replied. He turned to his men. "Bring forth the hostage!"

A journeyman - if his grey hood was an indication - was tossed forward by the Crusaders. Altair could just make out the man look up to his Master before a soldier ran the man through with a sword, blood spurting out. Even from their great height the master assassin could hear the gurgled groan as the hostage slumped forward, dead.

De Sable spoke again: "Your village lays in ruins, and your stores are hardly endless! How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain, when the wells run dry, and their food is gone?"

"My men do not fear death, Robert," Al Mualim countered. "They _welcome_ it, and the rewards it brings."

"Good!" de Sable spat. "Then they shall have it all around."

Rauf turned to the third man, his voice soft and reassuring. "Follow me," he said, "and do so without hesitation."

Al Mualim's voice was booming and confident as he gave the order. "Show these fool 'Knights' what it is to have no fear! Go to God!"

And, without the slightest bit of doubt, Altair, Rauf, and the third leapt off the battlements, plunging down to their deaths. Air whipped through Altair's ears and hair, the battlement wall streaking by him like a heat mirage, and the ground rushed up to meet him, and death was replaced with the sweet, dry scent of hay. Any assassin knew these parapets; this was where the Leap of Faith was practiced.

Altair quickly rolled out of the hay, Rauf doing the same. The third was not so quick, an agonized scream exiting his haystack instead of him. Rauf got to him first, Altair quick on his heels as they unburied the man, clutching his leg. "Quiet, _quiet_!" the sword master hissed, "or the Templars will hear us." The man bit his lip, moans muffled and softer, but still he grimaced in pain and leaned to one side, trying to favor the leg he clutched. Rauf deftly probed the leg, his hands quick and efficient, and with a sickening crack pulled and popped the leg to position. Tears leaked out of the man's eyes, so excruciating was his pain.

Rauf looked up to Altair, and the two nodded, silently agreeing on the next course of action.

Altair edged around the narrow ledge where the haystacks lay, the rocks giving him cover. Masyaf was built atop a mountain lake from which they drew their precious water, and while de Sable cursed and threatened Al Mualim, Altair crossed narrow support beams from one edifice to another, circling around the Templars until he reached his destination: a defense tower built into the mountain itself. The entrance was on de Sable's side but it mattered little to Altair. He took but a moment to study the vertical wall, plotting out his route before his calloused hands expertly found the necessary hand and footholds. It took perhaps half an hour to climb the half dozen stories until he reached the top.

Now he had a much better view. Al Mualim stood on the outer wall of the fortress, gazing down at de Sable as he would an errant child. The Templar Grand Master was directly below, his men trailing out behind him, cramped in the narrow pass. Perfect.

Altair looked to Al Mualim. Their eyes met, however briefly, and the Master nodded.

Sword drawn, Altair cut the rope to the trap, and dozen cut logs of varying sizes rolled out of the parapet directly onto de Sable and his men. Chaos erupted as the men tried to fall back, some crushed as the logs fell, others trapped as they rolled after them, others still run over by their compatriots as they tried to get away. Soon after the gates opened and the assassin troops chased after what was left of the throngs.

It took over two hours to weed out the last of the Crusaders, the assassins going building by building and searching for cowards or stragglers, assisting the villagers back to what was left of the ransacked village. Bodies were collected and gathered in a pile by the remains of the main gate for later disposal. Altair paid little attention to these things, instead riding his horse with the others, slashing and biting at Templar heels down the Orontes Valley and away from their territory.

It was late afternoon by the time Altair and the others returned to the city. He, Rauf, and Abbas were summoned to see Al Mualim, the mighty teacher standing over the training ring. Many of the troops were gathered around, intent on their Teacher's speech.

"You did well to drive Robert from here. His force is broken. It shall be a long while before he troubles us again. Tell me, do you know _why_ it is that you are successful?" He gazed intently at Altair, apparently this conversation was meant for him.

Uncertain, the master assassin remained silent.

"You _listened_ ," Al Mualim supplied. "Would that you had listened in Solomon's Temple, Altair, all of this would have been avoided."

"I did as I was asked," Altair said, refusing to show weakness.

The Master held up a hand, stalling his next words.

"No. You did as you pleased. Malik has told me of the arrogance you displayed, your disregard for our ways."

The bearded man glanced at the two at Altair's side, and Rauf and Abbas grabbed the master assassin's arms, restraining him.

"What are you doing?" Altair demanded.

"There are rules. We are nothing if we do not abide by the _Assassyun's_ Creed. Three simple tenets," he said, pacing slightly before turning a cold and merciless gaze to his student. "Which you seem to forget," he spat, grabbing Altair's chin and forcing the man to look at him. His blind eye was penetrating, his clear one furious. Altair could say nothing; one did not defend himself to the Master.

"I will remind you: First and foremost: _stay your blade_ ," and the Teacher's voice was harsh with disapproval.

"From the flesh of an innocent," Altair finished, his face blank, his body tense but neutral, all of it hiding his true emotion boiling inside of him. "I know."

Al Mualim backhanded the master assassin, a violent punch that sent his head snapping to one side.

"And stay your tongue," the Master added, "Unless I give you leave to use it."

Altair said nothing more.

"If you are so familiar with this tenet, then why did you kill the old man inside the temple? He was innocent; he did not need to die." He paused, waiting, silently daring his pupil to speak. Altair said nothing, causing the older man to frown. "Your insolence knows no bounds. Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I'll tear it from you with my own hands."

He let the words sink in before continuing. "The second tenet is that which gives us strength: Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you such that you become one with the crowd. Do you remember?" he demanded, still eying the assassin. "Because as I hear it you chose to expose yourself, drawing attention before you struck!

"The third and final tenet, the worst of all your betrayals: _never_ compromise the brotherhood. It's meaning should be obvious: your actions must never bring harm upon us, direct or indirect. Yet your selfish act to leave Jerusalem placed us all in danger! More still! You brought the enemy to our _home_! Every man we've lost today was lost because of _you_!"

A long, pregnant pause drew out between them. Murmurs could be heard breezing throughout the crowd. Public denouncements like this were not common, moreover the fact that this was Altair, the prize of the order, the best of the best. As the litany of his sins became apparent, the murmurs grew louder and angrier, but never did they overtake Al Mualim's angry rebuttals. Altair's ears were pounding, he was struggling to look disaffected; he could feel Abbas' hot breath grinning at his disgrace. He saw Kadar's face, awed and trusting; he saw Malik's face, twisted with anger and betrayal. Emotions raged through him, he did not know which to act on, and so he did nothing.

"I am sorry," the wizened Teacher said, drawing a knife. "Truly, I am. But I cannot abide a traitor."

Altair struggled against the men restraining him. "I am not a traitor," he said. Surely his actions this day had provided restitution? He had aided Rauf, held back the Templars, set off the trap that had slaughtered them, defended their home. Did that not count for anything...?

Al Mualim shook his head. "Your actions indicate otherwise," he answered, contemplating the blade in his hand. "And so you leave me no choice. Peace be upon you, Altair."

And the knife was thrust deep into the master assassin's side, above the protection of the leather belts, below the protection of the ribcage.

Pain exploded across his senses and he fell to the ground, Abbas grinning in victory and Rauf loo _king on in sadness and the Master not even sparing him a second glance because in the end even he was worthless after all..._


	2. Part Two: Routing a Traitor

Desmond was suddenly looking up at the blank ceiling of his prison, struggling to make sense of what the _fuck_ just happened!

"He's experiencing a far better adoption rate than the other subjects," the old codger was saying.

Desmond didn't care _what_ he was adopting, as long as he wasn't _dying_! That teacher-codger had just _stabbed_ his ancestor Altair, Desmond could still feel the icy cold fingers of death gripping at his heart. How did they still have memories to go for if that anscestor had just _died_ for Christ's sake?

He shuddered, the phantom pain in his side fading with every heartbeat that reaffirmed that _yes_ he was still alive, thank _God_!

"I'm still pulling him out," Stillman said.

That was just fine for Desmond. He didn't _want_ to experience death.

"He's been in there way too long."

_Hell_ yeah.

"No, not yet!" the old freak exclaimed. "We're still so far from where we need to be!"

Desmond would have told the old lab coat to go fuck himself if he had the strength. God, he was still trying to just move his arms. It was so disorienting to be in the Third Crusade one minute, then back to reality the next. _Jesus_ , he needed a second to adjust.

"We shouldn't risk it."

_You tell him, lady_ , Desmond thought to himself, still trying to make sure all his limbs were in working order.

"What's another hour or two?" the old fart insisted.

Stillman glared at him coldly. "Why don't we discuss this in the conference room?" She gestured to where he was still unmoving on the table. "Give Desmond a minute to stretch his legs."

She started to walk away, and Desmond could _swear_ she gave him a meaningful glance, no matter how brief. Or was that just a micro-expression? He was so disoriented.

"I really don't see the _need_ ," groused the doc, still acting like he was above it all, though more to himself than anyone in particular.

" _Warren_ , please," she said firmly, her heels loudly clicking her quick stomping steps towards a door by a wide observation window.

"Fine," the now named _Warren_ retorted petulantly, still trying to seem the better and more mature. And failing miserably in Desmond's opinion.

As the two walked away, Desmond finally found the strength to sit up, fiercely pressing his face into the palms of his hands. His hands with all ten fingers. He swung his legs over the side of the Animus, taking a moment to shake his head. His body felt… not quite stiff, but as if he'd just woken up suddenly from a nap and his muscles still thought he was asleep. He rubbed his head, glad to finally be _out_ of that damnable machine.

Now that he was properly back to himself, he glanced around.

Stretch his legs huh…

And being alone gave him the _perfect_ opportunity to do a little investigating. The more he learned about where he was and what he was supposed to be doing and who his captors where, the better chances he had of actual _escape_.

He glanced at the door that War _den_ and Stillman went through. He doubted he'd have access to that, but the door to the right of the observation window looked far more interesting.

The door was open, though Desmond recalled it being closed before for some reason. He walked through to a utilitarian room. A plain bed, with closets across from it and a small glass table and chair near the door were the only furnishings aside from the piping and duct work necessary for a commercial building or research facility that these seemed to be.

_He came to groggily, wondering what cocktail he'd made and then drank that gave him such a severe hangover. But when he got up, he was surprised to see he wasn't in familiar clothes. And just as his head started to clear, a hand the size of a Christmas ham grabbed his arm and started to drag him. Instinct had him resisting, but he was still too out of it to pull of anything well. He was yanked through the cold door cut into quadrants by odd white lighting and shoved onto some strangely curved counter in the middle of a room and told to lie down, Mr. Miles and this will all be over shortly_.

Right, so that's how they plugged him in that morning.

He walked quickly through what was likely going to be his "room" for a while, and into a bathroom just as sparse. He could already hear the old fart Warren trying to say something. A quick glance up showed the venting that allowed the air to circulate that lead likely to the conference room.

_Too easy. Are they_ stupid _?_

But Desmond wouldn't complain at this. Knowledge. He needed knowledge to get out of here. So he stood on a counter, pressed his ear as close to the vent as he could, and listened.

"I do not appreciate you questioning _my_ authority over the prisoner," the old coot said severely. "There's a word for that. I believe it's called 'insubordination'."

Damn old man. Did he think he was God or something?

"And I don't _appreciate_ you trying to kill him. There's a word for that too. I believe it's called 'stupid'."

Desmond smirked. She was sympathetic to him. He could use that. Somehow.

" _Lucy_."

Ah, so the blond had a first name. Lucy.

"This isn't my decision. I won't cross their line. I'm smart enough not to challenge them."

Damn, that meant someone was pulling the old fart's strings too.

"Do you want to wind up like Leila?"

Desmond stiffened. That wasn't just a random threat, the "I'll get you!" that most people threw at each other in anger but never really acted on. No, that was a threat of someone who knew what could happen and possibly make it so. Desmond knew that kind of voice. He'd heard a variation of it growing up and learning the basics for an assassin, but he'd only ever heard it, truly heard it, once before. And he'd known enough to get the hell out of that city as soon as possible.

"I know the accident has everyone on edge-"

This Lucy wasn't backing down. Desmond admired her spunk, but she still sounded like she was towing the company line. Likely the smart thing to do for herself. But he'd have to work on her somehow to get any help in escaping.

"Which is why we have no time to _coddle_ him," Warren interrupted coldly.

"If you push him too hard, he'll shut down. And then we'll have nothing."

Desmond didn't care for the sound of that.

The old fart laughed at that. "We have nothing _now_ ," he countered.

"But we will," Lucy said confidently. "We just need to have a little faith."

"Fine. But I want you thinking of ways to improve his staying power. We can't afford to stop every time the man breaks a sweat."

So Desmond's body _did_ react somehow to the memories he was living through. And the old bastard didn't even care that Desmond had been reacting because he had just _died_ in his own memory. That meant they were monitoring his health and needed him to remain stable to keep doing this.

Maybe he could use that? Something to think about.

"It's bad enough we have to traipse through all of these _useless_ memories."

Desmond scowled. Traipse around useless memories huh? Could he use that somehow too?

"I'll do what I can."

Desmond got off the counter and stretched his legs back to the Animus room, swiftly heading over to the window to make it look like he hadn't been eavesdropping at all. A glance outside showed that he was several stories up on some sort of bleached out office compound. The sun was starting to set in the horizon, making looking around and identifying where he was almost impossible. He'd have to look around more in the morning.

A sharp series of beeps heralded the door to the conference room opening and Desmond turned around to level an appropriately helpless glare to his Warden.

"We're done for today, Mr. Miles."

_No thanks to you, you heartless son of a bitch_ , Desmond thought vindictively. But he played the resigned test-subject.

"I suggest you return to your room and get some rest."

So Desmond was right. That was going to be his room for his stay here. The old bastard headed to a door opposite the head of the Animus, a double-wide door with the same strange division into quadrants by a set of white fluorescent lights. Lucy didn't follow, instead going to a small raised platform to check on a bank of servers. Cold air rained down from above, cold enough to create mist. Wasn't she freezing in that short sleeved shirt and skirt? Desmond walked up to her, uncertain what to say but knowing that if he was going to get anywhere, he needed someone in his pocket. Dr. Dickhead was out of the question, but this Lucy girl seemed remotely humane.

He didn't even need to start a conversation, Lucy turned to him as she finished, her eyes curious. In a slightly hesitant voice, she asked,

"So you're really an assassin? Like Altair?"

"Yes and no," he hedged. His mind started to race, weighing pros and cons swiftly. This was not the conversation starter he wanted, not in the slightest. He rubbed the back of his head, looking away. But it was a chance. One thing he learned as a bartender was that in order for others to open up, you sometimes needed to share something about yourself. Normally, for Desmond, that meant making something up on the spot. But that wasn't an option here. Talking about the old life wasn't going to be pleasant, but then, like everything else since this mess started, he didn't have many choices.

"What do you mean?"

"I was supposed to be one, but I ran away from the farm when I was sixteen." He looked away again, rubbing an arm. This conversation was going to _suck_.

" 'Farm?' "

"Yeah, that's what they called the place where I grew up: the farm. Like Masyaf, I guess, only not so, uh, creepy. Just a small community in the middle of nowhere, about thirty of us, living, you know, off the grid." He wasn't sharing anything about the farm. Granted, by now, they'd probably moved somewhere else, likely right after he'd run away. But even though he needed Lucy as an ally in this place, she was still a part of Abstergo. To say nothing of all the cameras all over the place. No, that was all he'd say about the farm. He was well trained in the respect of keeping quiet.

"But why?"

"Thought my parents were just crazy hippies," he answered, remembering younger days, "trying to stick it to the man, you know?" _We're trying to change the world. We're persecuted because we don't think like everyone else. Peace in all things. They'll kill us if they ever find us. We have to be prepared for any and everything._ "My dad was always going on about our enemies, about how they'd be looking for us, about how we have to be prepared." Years of believing it, years of waiting, years of... nothing. "No one ever came. Nothing ever happened."

"Then why'd you run away?" she asked, her head cocking to the side.

"Heh," Desmond snorted. What did she know? "I could _never_ leave the compound. You have any idea what it feels like being trapped in a place, knowing there was a whole world out there that I'd never get to see?" He'd had enough of confinement. He had been young and reckless and had craved a life where _he_ could make his own decisions.

Her face changed slightly, and expression Desmond couldn't read. Was it empathy? No, couldn't be.

"Don't you miss your parents?"

"No," Desmond answered easily, bitter memories filling his head. "Far as I'm concerned, they weren't my parents. They were my wardens, and I was their prisoner."

Lucy hesitated, her eyes darting to him and then looking away. "It sounds like they only wanted to protect you."

Well that just hurt. Because she was right. They had tried to warn him about this. Maybe not Abstergo specifically, but that people were out there and after _them_. Himself included. He had thought he'd left all that behind when he'd left. He was cautious of course, a lifetime of living off the grid didn't just disappear. But to know that he'd left for _no good reason_ hurt. His parents had told him, but he was such an impatient kid he didn't listen.

"With all that's happened... I don't know, I guess they were right." He owed them an apology.

... Assuming he could even get out of here and find them. By now they had probably moved to a different compound.

Lucy looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drudge up the past."

And with that, Desmond knew his sympathy vote had been cast. Lucy, bless her, had a heart, unlike Dr. Dickhead. Telling his story hurt, and it revealed more of himself than he ever wanted to in a place where he was a _prisoner_ , but it brought the blond assistant to his side.

"It's alright," he reassured her. "It gives me something to think about."

"Try and get some sleep," she said gently, a small smile on her face as she changed topic. "We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Got a question for you before I turn in." Because he was _not_ sharing his sob story without getting some information in return.

"Sure."

"How did they find me? I mean, I haven't been anywhere near another Assassin for ten years."

It was the one thing that bugged him. He was a reclusive loner. While he could do his bartending duties and be sociable as the situation called for it, he rarely related to anyone. He still stayed off the grid, kept hidden, and stayed alone. Alone suited him, but it also kept him away from the Assassins he'd run from. It's how he'd survived for over ten years.

"Did you use your real name?" she asked.

"No, not before today."

"Credit cards?"

"Cash only."

"Telephone?"

"Heh. No one to call."

"Driver's license?"

"Motorcycle. Guilty pleasure."

Everything about him was fake. Even his bartending license was a forgery, since he didn't need the paper trail of attending a proper mixology school. But being on a motorcycle, racing down windy roads, the wind in his face, the power of the bike, the skill of staying in control... of finally _having_ control over _something_ in his life... it had been the one thing he'd wanted to be real.

"There's your answer. Photo, fingerprint."

_Damn it._

"This is a _drug_ company!" Desmond protested. "What does Abstergo have to do with the DMV?"

"Desmond. These guys are _everywhere_. They..." Lucy completely stopped, her eyes darting to the cameras surrounding the room. "I... I'm sorry, I... I really can't talk about it. Aren't you tired?"

It wasn't long before Lucy said she had to go, and ushered him to his quarters.

Unsurprisingly the door slid shut behind him.

Also unsurprisingly was a pair of beeps that resembled a digital "ha-ha" as it triggered a red light above the door indicating that it was now locked.

"Dammit," Desmond growled.

He sat heavily on the metal chair in his room, thinking.

There was a "them". A "them" so powerful that even his warden didn't dare challenge them, and looking at all the equipment in the other room indicated that even the old codger had some connections to get finances for those state-of-the-art servers and processors that lined the walls. So the "them" had to be powerful to the extreme.

Shit, what the hell did he land in?

Right, not thinking about "them". Of his immediate captors, War _den_ was a dickhead with a stick so far up his ass it supported his spine. The old bastard had delusions of grandeur, thinking himself some kind of god over his coworkers and... subjects. If the conversation he overheard was any indication, he didn't give a damn about Desmond and whether he lived or died, he just wanted the easiest route to the information that "they" probably wanted. That required Desmond conscious, but it wasn't a necessity. The codger wouldn't put up with anything that was too much effort to control, so Desmond would have to be very careful in any arguments, lest he end up in a coma to do all this fact-finding. There was nothing to work with in that hand.

Which just left Lucy Stillman, hot blond with ethics. She would do what was asked of her, but fight for humane practices. _That_ was something he could work with. Desmond leaned back. He was a bartender after all. He could offer a sympathetic ear and wise advice. Befriend her and convince her to do something to give him a little more freedom. Perhaps leave his door open and then he could snoop around files and try and figure out more of what was going on around him.

... Or even where the hell he was...

Desmond glanced at the cameras in his room.

Speaking of snooping, a prisoner would be looking for methods of escape. So he might as well look around his room for those watching him.

Getting up he started to investigate his minimalist environment.

The ceilings were fairly high, Desmond estimated ten or twelve feet. Tapping the walls showed minimalist sheeting. It didn't even seem like standard drywall, but some sort of metal, meaning he couldn't punch through to access the wiring or plumbing behind the walls. No hacking that way. The recessed lighting in the walls seemed to be mounted from behind the walls, since even when Desmond pulled out one of the fluorescent bulbs, he couldn't see any screws or nails for attachment. Nothing to get his fingers on. At best the bulbs would be sharp glass, but they wouldn't do what he needed them to in the long term.

The piping in the bathroom was partially exposed and might make for a good weapon if he could somehow get it off. That was also looking unlikely with the number of brackets that seemed to be supporting it to the wall. They build this place to last.

... Or hold a prisoner...

The only things provided that he could move around in his room were the towels in the bathroom and the small set of toiletries in the nightstand by the bed.

He was on the metal chair in the shower stall looking around the shower-head for what sort of supports it might have when the door to his room beeped.

He leaped down with the grace of always climbing chairs to get wines on the upper shelves and went into his room.

An armed guard had a gun pointed in his direction; Desmond easily held up his hands, shrugging his shoulders. No resistance from him.

Not yet, anyway.

The guard set a tray of something on his glass desk, then backed out of the room. The door shut with a digital "ha-ha", and Desmond was locked in again. He waited a moment before cautiously walking over.

What he saw made his stomach growl.

"At least I'm allowed to eat."

Not that it was much of a meal. Bland looking and only barely warm, he shoved down the tasteless food. They needed him functioning and he needed himself functioning.

Once done, Desmond decided that he'd done all he could for the day. A good night's sleep was just as necessary as regular meals after all. So he washed up and went to the closet to change.

To find it locked.

"Are you _kidding_ me? I can't even change?"

Desmond let out a tired sigh. His clothes were still clean. Years of the farm and "leave no evidence" had made him a very neat eater, but it was the principle of the thing.

Guess he was going to bed in his clothes.

He tried not to think of his father, their last fight, the old fart's warnings and how they were... were true.

* * *

_Blood blood everywhere but hidden washed away yet still there symbols must write this down must share this the next subject must know can't write no pens no pencils no quills no charcoal just fingers missing finger not missing finger must be coded codex coded blood writes he'll see it he has my blood he has my past symbols coded Chinese letters Japanese kanji eagle sharp eyes can see pictures maps warnings they can't hold me here death is my freedom blood dripping but such good paint_

* * *

He stayed still as he startled awake and he saw red writing that confused him but he closed his eyes and slid back to sleep, the vision fading to nothingness.

* * *

The following morning Desmond woke slowly, trying to ease tension out of his body. Strange, normally such tension in his body indicated that he'd had a nightmare, but he didn't remember it. Did they slip something into his food? He normally remembered his dreams so clearly...

He blearily opened his eyes...

And saw the old bastard standing over him.

Desmond groaned, pulling away, "Gotta say," he said, voice still thick with sleep, "that's a little creepy Doc, waking up to you standing over me."

This whole situation wasn't bizarre enough. Really it wasn't. Now there was a freak that watched him sleep either in bed or flat on the Animus. Definitely a god complex.

"Been watching me sleep?" he asked, a bit more awake, if only for the creeped out feeling crawling through his veins.

"We're always watching you," War _den_ replied coldly. Not that Desmond needed the reminder. "Now get up. We've got a lot of work to do."

"Ooh, wonder who I get to kill today," Desmond shot back with bitter sarcasm as he sat up. Because a prisoner would fight back with the only thing he had. Words. Let his observers think he was helpless. He'd keep thinking. And since they couldn't monitor his thoughts, he would have the advantage.

Besides, he liked being snippy and sarcastic. It was resistance he could show and if he irritated the old codger enough, maybe he'd make a mistake.

"Don't be so cavalier," War _den_ snapped.

Desmond ranked a victory in his column.

"Your ancestors _almost_ had the right idea, Mr. Miles."

Desmond stood and the door beeped to let them out to the Animus room where there was a tray of breakfast by the Animus all set up.

"If the deaths of a few people, _evil_ people, no less, could save the lives of thousands more, well, it seems a _small_ sacrifice."

Desmond looked at the plastic spoon for his cereal and lamented. Sure, prisoners in penitentiaries had the creativity to use a plastic spoon as a weapon, but that meant doing things that would take a while and Desmond had left the farm for a _reason_. He wanted to escape, not kill people. No matter how much his warden irritated him, Desmond didn't want to cross that line. Not if he didn't have to. So he quietly ate his cereal and drank his milk and juice from their plastic cups.

_Ergh, no coffee, such cruelty_.

"What do you mean, 'almost'?" Desmond asked. Did War _den_ have a touch of admiration for Desmond's ancestors? That might be useful...

"They didn't go far _enough_ ," the old coot replied, one arm behind him while the other swung at the elbow expansively. "To use a rather tired analogy, corruption is no different than cancer. Cut out the tumors, but fail to treat the _source_ and, well... you're buying time, at best. There's no true change to be had without comprehensive, systemic intervention."

Right. God complex.

"Chemo for the masses."

Because mass murder _always_ solves everything. Sure it does. Desmond looked down to his cereal to hide rolling his eyes. Yes, the world was messed up. There were a lot of bad people out there and, Desmond would agree, that some people needed to die, if for no other reason than because they were too dangerous. But he knew enough about history to know that if you killed someone, they became a martyr and someone just as terrible would rise to take their place. It was why he didn't see the point in being an assassin. Things didn't change that way.

War _den_ prattled on.

"Education, re-education, to be more precise. But it's not easy and it doesn't always take."

Oh, so dear Doctor Dickhead didn't believe in mass murder but mass brain-washing. Desmond grabbed a slice of toast and rolled his eyes again.

"Let me guess," he dripped sarcasm. "You've got a better solution." Desmond paused and cut back on the sarcasm. Quietly, but carefully he asked, "What is it then?"

Information. Knowledge. Spill the beans, doc.

War _den_ chuckled, one arm still behind his back, the other waving at the elbow. "Now _that_ would be telling."

...Guess a victory got chalked up in the bastard's column as well.

Desmond finished his toast and cleaned his hands on the provided napkins, deftly tossing them to the garbage can under the cart that had his food. The old bastard had walked over to his raised desk and stared out the window, sipping his coffee (since of _course_ his captors had coffee). "Hurry up, Mr. Miles, we don't have all day."

Stuffing down a growl, Desmond looked to Lucy who was at the monitor by the foot of the Animus. She glanced at him with a micro-expression and offered a sympathetic smile. "If you're done eating, let's get started."

Desmond looked at the curved Animus, and frowned.

Knowledge. It was all about knowledge. And maybe if he could figure out what this Altair guy was supposed to be after _before_ his captors...

... He had to get on that thing.

He lay back on it and as the visor came up from his left, he felt pressure at the back of his skull and...

* * *

Desmond looked down at his anscestor's body surrounded by white fog and floating symbols.

" _Just a moment, Desmond, and we'll have everything loaded_."

"You know," he replied, "it's really off-putting when I'm surrounded by nothingness and your voices just kinda comes out of nowhere."

He looked down at the robes, noting that there wasn't any stains from the battle that he'd just watched his ancestor fight to save a fortress-home he'd never seen before. In fact, they were the same pristine white as when he'd first been in this waiting area.

Hm.

That meant there were things the Animus couldn't do.

" _Are you ready, Desmond?_ "

"To spend a long string of DNA dying in order to get to that memory you want?" he replied sarcastically. "Sure thing. Wonder how long it'll take to bleed out."

Desmond took a breath to steady himself. He'd last left his ancestor being stabbed by the old teacher-man. He wondered how much that pain would disorient him this time.

The fog dissipated in a flash of white and Desmond was _standing. In front of the leader of the Assassins. Looking down, he didn't even see blood._

_... He was alive?_

_He was_ alive _?_

* * *

Altair was shocked to find himself whole. His last clear memory had been of the teacher, the closest thing he had to a father, stabbing him. Falling to the ground between Rauf and Abbas for a treachery that Altair did not believe he had committed. He had made a mistake, true, but treachery? Certainly his master thought more of him than that!

And yet he was _whole_.

"I am... _alive_." He looked up and around. He was in the library of the fortress, the usual room where Al Mualim did his work, taking reports, sending out orders, and making decisions. His master had often said that when surrounded by such knowledge, by researching all angles of what he wished to do, he was assured that he was making the right choice.

Before him, behind the simple wooden table, stood his teacher, centered in front of the great window, hands clasped behind him. His gaze was flat and revealed nothing and Altair could not make sense of what had occurred.

"But I saw you stab me..." Sharp pain, deep into his chest, piercing his diaphragm, grazing a lung, and burying into his heart. Darkness encroaching upon his vision, sound fading away. Not the sinking into unconsciousness, Altair was quite familiar with that sensation. But ice filling his veins, his heart's life-giving beat slowing, the strong smell of his own blood. And Al Mualim looking coldly down on him. "...Felt death's embrace..."

What had _happened_?

"You saw what I wanted you to see," his master said gently.

Altair straightened, surprised to not feel pain in his side.

Stepping forward, the teacher continued. "And then you slept the sleep of the dead." He leaned forward. "Of the womb, that you might awake and be reborn."

Altair blinked. "To what end?"

"Do you remember, Altair," his master said, walking around the table, "what it is the Assassin's fight for?"

"Peace," he replied promptly. "In all things."

"Yes," his mater nodded, a flash of pride on his face. "In _all_ things. It is not enough to end the violence one man commits upon another. It refers to peace within as well."

This was the master Altair knew so well: one who lectured on philosophy and principles, how to better oneself to do one's work more efficiently. There was no coldness, no thrusting a knife to his innards, but the warmth of the father of the Order.

Al Mualim continued, "You cannot have one without the other."

"So it is said," Altair agreed.

"So it _is_ ," Al Mualim corrected harshly, anger twisting his face.

Altair did not reply. The master had shown anger on occasion over the years, but never a fury so closely banked as this, and never had the teacher _ever_ had such harsh tone and words for Altair, the most promising, and then the best assassin of the brotherhood.

It was clear that Altair had erred. Badly. But looking back he could see no other options.

"But _you_ , my son, have not found inner peace. It manifests in _ugly_ ways. You are _arrogant_ and _overconfident_."

Disappointment from the master was something that all within the Order dreaded. The teacher was strict, wise, and cared for them all. To fail him was a great shame, thus all within the brotherhood strove for perfection.

Altair did not care for the disappointment and fury held towards him by such a revered man.

He cared even less for such harsh criticisms. Especially since he'd had no peace once Adha had disappeared. Since then Altair had faced the worst of humanity and lived.

Inner peace? That was but a dream.

"Where you not the one to say that 'Nothing is true; everything is permitted'?"

Because Altair had taken those words to heart. It was the only thing that could make sense after the disappearance of Adha. If everything was permitted, then the atrocities he'd seen could be understood. If nothing was true, then all people were potential liars and traitors as Harash, the Order's second-in-command, now dead by Altair's blade, had been. It was the only thing that created order in all the chaos Altair had seen in the last year.

Al Mualim looked sadly at him. "You do not understand the true meaning of the phrase, my child." The teacher rounded the table to stand behind it again. "It does not give you the freedom to do as you wish, it is a knowledge meant to _guide_ your senses, it expects a wisdom you _clearly_ lack."

"... Then what is to become of me?" Altair asked with all deference.

"I _should_ kill you for all the pain you have brought upon us. Malik thinks it only fair. Your life in exchange for his brother's-"

Altair understood that line of thinking. After all, he wanted the lives of those who had taken Adha away. But Altair did not wish to die.

"-but this would be a waste of my time and your talent."

Altair nodded to himself. As long as he was still useful for the teacher, Malik would not have that wish. Perhaps he could somehow heal that friendship. Altair still could not understand what had changed Malik so, but that was a question for another time.

Al Mualim walked around table again. "You'll see you have been stripped of your possessions. Your rank, as well. You are a novice. A child, once more, as you were on the day you first joined our Order. Born again to learn again."

That _stung_. Altair was in his second decade; he was _not_ a child. He had worked _hard_ to reach the rank he well and truly _earned_. Had he not suffered enough? What more humiliation would there be?

"I am offering you a chance at redemption. You'll _earn_ your way back into the Brotherhood."

Redemption.

Al Mualim was offering redemption.

Altair would take that path. He would prove his worth again. Because this wizened teacher was all Altair had left that was steady and reliable.

"I assume you've something planned."

"First you must prove to me that you remember _how_ to be an assassin." The teacher walked to back of desk once again. So much motion for this conversation, Al Mualim was displeased indeed.

"So you'd have me take a life." That would be simple.

"No. Not yet, at least." The master looked coldly at Altair again. "For now, you are to become a student once again."

Anger flared. "There is _no_ need for this!" To go back so far... To a beginning that Altair didn't even remember... He truly would be... a novice.

And all this for a mistake that he still could not see.

"Others tracked your targets for you," the master continued, "but no more. From today on, you will track them yourself."

"If this is what you wish," Altair bowed his head, sullen at his new placement.

"It is." No room for argument.

"Then tell me what it is that I must do," he said, resigned and ready to work back to Al Mualim's good graces.

"We have been betrayed. Someone was assisting Robert de Sable. One of our own." The teacher leaned on desk, his face exhausted. "You must find him and bring him here for questioning."

Another traitor. Like Harash. How did de Sable's cursed men keep infiltrating the brotherhood? _How_?

"What can you tell me of the traitor?" Altair would not abide such treachery. The Order had suffered enough for it. Altair had things to say to such a betrayer.

"Aah, but that's just it." Al Mualim smiled, though it was not one of amusement or resignation, but of harsh cruelty. "I've given you all I will. The rest is up to you." The master turned to the window, a clear dismissal.

Altair kept his emotions tightly in control. Frustration mounted at having _nothing_. All he knew was that there was a traitor in their midst. The Order bore many members in Masyaf, numbers easily making half of the town's population. That made almost nine-hundred suspects! And he was to find but one! That was assuming that the traitor wasn't one of the townspeople who worked with the Order. Then that was over eighteen-hundred suspects.

The frustration of it all... was over-powering. Altair needed a moment, a moment to get all of this feeling under control. In one sweeping moment, his entire world had been shaken and pulled out from under him. He could never recall being on such unsteady footing with everything.

So Altair did as he always did when seeking solitude. He retreated to the highest parapets of the fortress.

It was too much to take in.

The demotion was _humiliating_. He had not even his hidden blade, the one weapon that he'd born for over a decade, the most reliable and swift weapon his arsenal. He had no resources now. All his hard work to become the best of the Order and now he was back to the very bottom. Even lower because no novice was his age. Not even _apprentices_ were his age.

And Altair would have to bow and scrape to every one of them.

Al Mualim sought to teach him humility.

Altair's pride bristled at the very idea. His work was now that much harder.

Letting out a long sigh, he looked to the afternoon sun.

The anger at the demotion was understandable. But it was not the primary source. No, the reason he raged at his situation was to avoid the confusion.

Altair had been dead. _Dead_. He was certain. He hadn't just felt death's embrace, he had been smothered by it. Yet here he was, alive, whole, and there was no sign of any injury. Al Mualim had said that he slept the sleep of the dead. Of the womb. So had he died or not?

_You saw what I wanted you to see._

What did that mean? Was Altair simply put to rest to heal? Was it weeks, months later that he had to investigate? For such an injury would take much time to heal. Yet Altair doubted the possibility, for his muscles were as toned and sharp as he remembered. Such a long convalescence would have left him weakened and in need of building strength again.

So what had happened? Al Mualim had shown him a lie? A possibility of what would be if Altair continued on some path that he wasn't aware of? That was unlike his master. The teacher used logic and examples, experience and situations. He did not present lies in his lessons. Just facts that his students needed to figure out.

And if that was just a possible path, why did Al Mualim look so coldly upon him when thrusting in the blade? Al Mualim weighed every death carefully. He would not revel or rejoice at a death. He would merely see it as a solemn necessity. To smile at death was to become your enemy.

It was all so confusing.

So Altair focused on his anger at his position. That was easy to understand. Easy to use. Fury and rage were weapons one honed into cold determination.

Altair would finish this task given him. He would prove his worthiness.

And perhaps by then, the confusion would be forgotten.

But deep, deep in Altair's heart, beneath everything he was aware of within his own mind, at the very foundation where he'd built his beliefs based on his unwavering trust of the great teacher Al Mualim, a tiny crack formed.

Altair proceeded, unaware of the small fissure. Unaware of how it would grow.

Altair did not leap to the haystacks below. His emotions were once more his own to control and utilize, and there was one meeting he wished before going out to Masyaf and starting his investigation. And since the person he wanted to see was likely within the upper areas of the fortress, it would be more efficient to climb back down the standard way.

Besides, a _novice_ could not do a leap of faith.

And though he raged against it, Altair was now a novice.

He let out a sigh and silently walked through the halls, reaching a tower that held the physicians of the fortress.

His purpose here was two fold. First it was to check upon his old and now bitterly estranged friend Malik. From that, he would be able to gauge how much time had passed since being stabbed by the master.

He stuck to the shadows, not wishing to intrude when so many physicians and apprentices were scurrying about, until he found a lone physician, leaning against a wall and sipping from a cup of water.

"Safety and peace," Altair greeted, emerging from the darkness to stand in the light of the window.

The physician startled, though in a barely noticeable way before turning.

"Ah, our newest novice," the man said scornfully. "Have you injured yourself already?"

Altair bit back his first, second and third response before quietly saying, "I wish to know the condition of Malik A-Sayf."

"That is knowledge above your station, novice."

Altair said nothing, merely staring at the man.

The physician glowered right back, but he could not maintain it as Altair could. He turned, looking out the window. "The Order knows of your demotion, novice. Al Mualim has informed us of the need to teach you humility."

"Humility is not granted by simply leaving one in ignorance if one asks a question," Altair replied, holding the hot anger back from his voice.

"No. But it is taught by making one work for the answer. Al Mualim thought you might come here. Tell me, novice, have you completed the mission that our leader has given you?"

Altair said nothing.

"I thought not. We do as Al Mualim wills before all else." The physician glanced back to the demoted assassin. "Yet in my opinion, your coming here first speaks more of you than completing any assassination. The others are wrong. There may be hope for you."

"I care not what others think of me."

"That can be a help and a hindrance. At the moment, you bear it as a hindrance."

Altair let out a long sigh. "I did not come here for lectures or conversation. Will you tell me of Malik A-Sayf's condition or not?"

"Arrogant indeed," the physician replied. "I will say that it is serious. We've had but a day to tend to him and he needs much tending. If he survives such a grievous injury or not, that shall be up to him."

Altair looked down. He closed his eyes and allowed a moment to worry and grieve. But it passed in a moment. Malik was far too stubborn to follow Kadar in death. That was enough.

"My thanks, brother."

"Safety and peace," the physician replied. "Novice."

Altair grated his teeth and left. He had a hopeless investigation to start.

At least he knew that not much time had passed. The trail would still be fresh, if he could but find it.

And, disturbingly, the physician was unsurprised to find Altair whole. That meant Al Mualim's stabbing of him was some sort of illusion.

Altair pushed such thoughts from his mind as he exited the fortress and walked past the training ring. The injured were still there, already treated by the Order's physicians and those still needed aide likely within the walls. Those that were there were clearly resting before starting the long walk down the mountain to the town. Novices and apprentices were flitting about, offering aide to those who were ready and water or food for those who were not.

He supposed he should be grateful that he at least didn't have to do such trivial things. Altair's mission to ferret out their traitor was at least important, unlike helping the masses.

At the fortress's entrance, a journeyman stood in his grey _tangelmust_ , scanning the crowds. As Altair approached, he stepped forward.

"Safety and peace, Altair."

"You're in my way."

"Yes, Al Mualim has asked that I assist you. Remind you how it is we hunt our prey." The journeyman's _tangelmust_ hid all but his eyes, which glanced down. Altair held back a smirk. It seemed that despite his demotion he was still respected.

"I know how it works," he replied with contempt. Was he truly to be treated as a novice by the _entire_ Order?

"Be that as it may, I have no desire to disobey," was the quiet, almost timid response. This, at least, Altair could understand. One did not disobey Al Mualim.

"Then be quick."

"The _assassyun_ have many tools at their disposal-" the journeyman started to lecture. As if Altair was _truly_ a novice.

"Yes, yes," he interrupted. A full lecture would take time and he had a trail to find and then follow. He may have to suffer the humiliation of being viewed as a novice, but he would _not_ let it slow him down. "We can eavesdrop; we can pickpocket or we can use violence to intimidate."

"Good! You remember." The journeyman let out a small sigh of relief.

"So you'd have me walk amongst the others and learn what I can about the traitor," Altair continued in a condescending tone. The journeyman had done nothing to earn Altair's ire, but the demoted assassin dared not talk back to Al Mualim. Indeed, he would do well not to talk back to anyone. But one's tone could always be misinterpreted.

"Yes. Begin by going to the village market. That's where we first spotted the traitor."

... _Spotted_? Al Mualim already knew who the traitor _was_? And yet he was sending Altair on this fool's errand? There was no efficiency in this! It was a waste of the Order's time and his talents!

"You know who it is?" he demanded.

"Perhaps." The journeyman leaned back and for a brief moment, looked proud to have an advantage over the best assassin in the brotherhood.

"Then give me a name and let's be done with it." Enough wasting time.

"That's not the way it works. Al Mualim wishes you to learn, and this is the lesson he has presented for you." The journeyman was looking down again, humble once more. "Now go." Swiftly, the informant turned and headed back to the fortress.

Altair took a moment to let his rage boil before banking it and setting off swiftly down the mountain.

He walked amongst the people, blending with the other assassin whites of the crowd as he and other _rafiq_ and _dai_ headed to town. Journeymen and apprentices were still helping the citizens down the mountain often taking breaks or respite. Altair only glanced at them long enough to recognize his fellow members of the Order. He had made a point, despite his many missions away from Masyaf, to know every member of the Order at least by face.

Once in the first stretches of town, Altair easily broke from the crowd and climbed a ladder to the rooftops. If he was to truly observe and find a trail, being above was the best place to be. Most did not think to look up, after all. And Altair could conceal his presence with such ease that even upper ranking journeymen would not know he was there.

Making his way from rooftop to rooftop, Altair observed the crowds below, suspicious of all. The Assassins, he recognized. Most who were down in the towns were the journeymen and apprentices. The senior assassins, _rafiq_ and _dai_ were still mostly in the fortress, tending their own. Those that were down in the town were talking with merchants, likely evaluating stocks and costs for repair, since the Order of Assassin's had agreed to pay part of any repairs incurred due to Order business. The merchants came to Masyaf to have a safe and quiet place to do business with the understanding that trouble could come. It was an agreement that had worked well thus far.

Altair briefly wondered if Al Mualim was going to have to renegotiate with the merchants after this skirmish, but dismissed the thought as it didn't truly concern him.

Leaping easily from higher rooftops to another set a level lower on the mountain, Altair paused.

The bulk of the people moving about town were... the citizens. And Altair did not know any of them. The only interactions he'd had with the townsfolk were the merchants he dealt with directly that handled his equipment. The tanner, the blacksmith, the apothecary, the stable-master. Those faces he knew. The others were all strangers to him. He did not visit the inn for meals, as fellow Assassin's would, nor did he have family in town.

Altair frowned. If he did not know them, he did not have a measure of them.

... That was worrisome.

Depending how long he was chained to Masyaf, doing Al Mualim's tasks of redemption, he would need to make a concentrated effort to recognize faces as he did with the Order. Not knowing the faces of people in Beirut or Amman was understandable. Those cities were massive. But to not know the people of his very home? Unacceptable.

It would seem Altair had become complacent. This would change.

He continued down the rooftops until he reached the market square, small and next to the mountain, the mid-afternoon sun was starting to stretch shadows, providing a cool respite. In fact, in one of those shadows were two people who should not be there.

Altair frowned heavily. One bore the white hood of a senior assassin, such as himself. The other bore a black robe like Al Mualim, an older assassin likely retired to be a _rafiq_ or _dai_. But the hood pulled up suggested one who might still do assassinations from time to time. After all, a hood was only ever pulled back when one no longer needed to hide from the kills one performed.

With such skilled assassins just standing in the shade, leaning against a well like a pair of gossip mongers, Altair recognized what they were doing.

They were waiting for him.

This was how the most beginning novice would learn to eavesdrop. A "mission" would be set up and the novice would have to listen in without anyone noticing and report what he'd learned.

Altair was on a roof above them, completely hidden, and yet they did not start the conversation he needed to hear.

Because a _novice_ would not hide so well.

Altair chaffed and grated at the restrictions on him, but retreated to find a ladder. He climbed down swiftly and blended with the crowds heading into the market until he found a lone bench in the sun. He'd have stood out horribly were it not for an apprentice who was helping a tired old woman take a brief rest. As Altair sat, he reached down and petted the woman's dog, offering it a piece of dried meat from one of his pouches, which made the woman turn to him to thank him for his kindness.

The senior assassin in the shade nodded.

"I know what I saw," he said quietly to the _rafiq_. "Masun opened the gate, he _let_ the Templars in."

The _rafiq_ replied, "Then you must tell Al Mualim."

Altair hid a scoff by commanding the dog to sit and then lie down. This conversation was very clearly put on for his benefit. Still, he had what he needed. The traitor was a man named Masun. There was nothing more to learn here. Once the two departed, he would find Masun and drag him to Al Mualim.

"I _can't_ ," the senior assassin said emphatically. "Masun did not act alone. Someone _inside_ the fortress helped him."

_That_ caught Altair's ear, however. _Another_ traitor? How was it that betrayal had become a disease in the Order? First Harash, now this.

"What makes you say this?" the _rafiq_ asked.

"He exchanges letters with someone inside. The basket-weaver carries them for him."

Altair rubbed the dog's belly, looking at his mental map of Masyaf. He had passed the basket-weaver on his way down. It would be simple to find.

"That's no reason to stay silent."

Indeed.

"Bah, but the weaver delivered him a letter just before the attack. I suspect it held the order to open the gate."

Altair gave an extra piece of dried meat to the dog. If he could obtain the letter, it would be evidence. More proof to Al Mualim that he could do his job.

"Then speak to the weaver," the _rafiq_ said wisely, "He can name Masun's accomplice."

"He's disappeared," the senior assassin replied. "Hiding for fear of being dragged into this."

"Hehn. Probably inside one of his own baskets." They both chuckled, glancing at Altair with the briefest of micro-expressions before separating and joining the crowds.

He gave the dog one last treat, silently accepted the old woman's thanks and swiftly found a ladder to reach the rooftops once more.

He found the basket-weaver's shop easily. He stayed on the roof opposite, looking at the empty stall as the sun continued to march down. Altair sat to think. There was no basket-weaver. It was possible that he was hidden, as the conversation he "eavesdropped" indicated, or delivering another message, or simply getting wares from another stall and replenishing what was lost in the Templars attack.

It was hard to say.

There were several options before him. He could wait until the weaver arrived, search the stall since the weaver was not there, or search the village.

Altair frowned heavily. He could not search the village for the basket-weaver, as he didn't know what he looked like. He truly needed to get to know the villagers, at least by face if nothing else.

So, with a quiet sigh, Altair retreated from the stall to find a ladder once more, intent to search the stall and shop to find the traitorous letters that might lead him to Masun's accomplice.

To his consternation, the nearest ladder was farther away than he preferred, but as long as he wasn't noticed, all was well. He blended into the crowds once more, heading to the basket-weaver's stall.

Altair was surprised when he arrived to see that the basket-weaver was there, and fending off a desperate townswoman.

" _Please_ , just one!" the woman begged. "We lost everything in the attack and have no place to store our grain."

"I...I can't right now... I-I'm busy," the weaver stuttered. Altair grinned from down the street, leaning easily against a building to appear to be resting in the shade. The weaver was nervous. He realized that he was in the middle of something big and scared of being caught. As he well should be.

"Is this about the letter?" the woman asked, confused.

Letter? Altair's grin widened. Proof. He would get the letter and have proof of Masun's treachery and perhaps a name of the assassin who had betrayed them. He would be back in Al Mualim's good graces by the end of the day.

"W-w-what letter?" The weaver looked around nervously.

"The letter you received when I got here. Bad news?" the woman was concerned.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about. Listen, I'll see what I can do, but please. I need to be alone right now. Come back later."

"As you wish."

The woman left, looking confused and somewhat upset about not getting what she needed for her grains. Altair paid her no mind, his eyes, ears, and very being locked onto the basket-weaver who went through the motions of closing shop, despite it being mid-afternoon. Looking around nervously, the weaver checked his pouch for a third time before hesitantly heading off up the windy path of the mountain. Altair became a white shadow, shifting from crowd to crowd easily as he approached, looking away only when the weaver turned around suspiciously.

So nervous. Paranoia made the weaver's senses heighten, but that meant nothing to Altair. He was the best of the best. He walked up, easily lifted the whole pouch, and was disappearing up a ladder to a rooftop before the weaver even thought something was wrong.

Altair pulled the sole letter out of the pouch, eager to see the name of the other traitor.

_Brother,_

_I fear our plans have been discovered and we can no longer meet. Best you disappear before Al Mualim's men find you. They must not learn of my betrayal or everything we've worked for will be undone. I've left some coin for you near the dead Cyprus tree. Take it and head for Damascus. Loose yourself amongst the people there. When things have settled I'll contact you again._

_As for I, I cannot leave here knowing Al Mualim continues to deny the freedom of these people. A new world is coming. One without war, without fear or pain, so I must help them anyway I can. You'll probably believe me foolish, but I must remain in Masyaf. I'll be near the center of the village on the stage calling out to my brother's and sisters. Maybe I can make them listen. Maybe I can make them understand._

_May the Father of Understanding Guide You._

Altair's eyes narrowed as he read the letter again. Masun knew the assassins were on to him and was advising his accomplice to vanish. Indeed, Masun intended to pay his associate's way. The first part was what Altair expected of such a filthy traitor.

But the second part was infuriating. Al Mualim, denying freedom? Al Mualim _provided_ freedom! How dare this knave speak of such things he clearly did not understand? A new world? Masun must have been bewitched by false words and idealist promises that would never come true. It was impossible to have a world without fear or pain. The Assassin's worked towards peace, but the ultimate goal was self-determination. Let people choose their paths. Most would choose wisely, but some would not. Those who did not use wisdom would harm others. It was inevitable. And those who went too far would face an assassin's blade.

Altair put the anger aside. The letter was clear proof for Al Mualim. That was what was important. As for who the other traitor was, well. Altair was quite good at intimidation and interrogation.

The stage it was then. Altair winded his way up, from rooftop to rooftop, scaling walls as necessary given the steep climb of the mountain. He stayed on the roofs this time, looking for Masun. The traitor was indeed on the stage, surrounded by a small crowd of a dozen as he spoke passionately to them.

"I see the way you look at me," he said heatedly. "I hear the things you say. Traitor! I'm not a traitor, it is Al Mualim who's betrayed us!" Altair, along with most of the crowd, scoffed. "You'll see. Soon all of your eyes will be opened to the truth. We stand upon the threshold between this world and a new one, a better place where all might live as equals!" Some of the crowd laughed out loud. "But men like Al Mualim would see this dream destroyed!"

Altair shook his head. This fool was so... stupid. And fanatical.

"Yesterday's attack was but the first," Was that a _threat_? Altair thirsted for his blade. "And more will follow unless you repent. Give up your wicked ways, rise up against the madman of Masyaf. See through his lies!"

The crowd booed him some picking up loose stones to throw at him. Altair could not stop the smile.

Masun tried a few more minutes to convince them, but to no avail. He threw up his hands in defeat and stalked off, heading to the shaded street that lead to the dead Cyprus tree. No doubt seeking to deliver the coins he promised to whoever his fellow traitor was.

Altair smiled. The dead Cyprus tree was isolated with a small wall that would ensure privacy.

It was all too easy. Altair attacked once Masun was crouched under the dead tree, ramming his skull fiercely into the mountainside, then pulling him up to thrust a knee into the traitors groin. A swift punch under the ribs, as Altair's personal vengeance for the betrayal was he was able to give before Masun gave up without throwing a single punch back.

"Enough! I yield! I yield!"

"Speak quickly then," Altair growled. "I have no interest in your games. Why did you betray us and who do you serve?"

"We serve the Templars," Masun replied, coughing and clutching at his groin, his voice higher. "You should too. Their cause is just."

Altair didn't even dignify the idiocy of that with a response. "We?"

"Jamal," the traitor groaned. "He told me of their plans; asked me to open the gate."

Through the basket-weaver. But Altair already knew this. It was not what he wanted to know.

"You betrayed us," he snarled. "We, who called you brother and kept you safe from harm."

"I did what I believed was right." Altair frowned. The man had taken leave of his senses. "And if you must kill me for it, so be it. I am not afraid to die."

That gave Altair pause. Masun was willing to die for what he believed in, insane as it was. Against his will, Altair gave a little respect for that. After all, he believed in Al Mualim and would die if needs be to further the teacher's goals. "Your fate is not for me to decide. It is Al Mualim who will judge."

Altair briefly wondered if Al Mualim would use an illusion on this man as he had on Altair, but pushed that aside swiftly.

Though Masun clearly had difficulty walking, Altair grabbed his arm and dragged him up the mountainside, refusing to heed his pleas to go slowly or to have a moment to recover from the beating.

The guards of the fortress let him in without a word and Altair showed none of the pride he felt as he had solved the mystery in less than an afternoon. Al Mualim would favor him once more for this. He had proven he could do investigations. Altair would have his rank and respect back and then he would go after de Sable.

Al Mualim was in the library once more, though this did not surprise Altair. Indeed, the master seemed to have been waiting. A sword was in his hand as he faced the window behind the table. Altair kicked Masun's legs out from under him, making the traitor kneel, firmly grasping the shoulder so the traitor would not run.

The teacher didn't turn, but started speaking.

"You stand accused of betraying our brotherhood and opening the way for our enemies," he said, turning slightly. "How do you answer these charges?"

"I deny nothing," Masun said hotly. "I am _proud_ of what I did. My only regret is that they failed." Altair's grip tightened.

"I offer you a chance to repent," Al Mualim continued softly, "to renounce the evil in your heart."

"It is not _evil_ in my heart," the traitor bit out, "but _truth_. I will not repent. There is nothing to repent."

"Then you will die," Al Mualim said heavily. He raised the sword with both hands and drove it down through the soft tissues of Masun's neck, piercing the heart between the ribs, blood gushing out as the sword came out just above the hip and chipped the floor beneath. The murder was done with the grace of a true master.

Masun didn't even cry out as his head slumped forward, his body unable to due to the sword piercing and supporting his torso. Al Mualim held the sword there before bracing a hand at the bloody neck and yanking the long blade out, finally letting Masun's body fall to the floor. The soft thud seemed to be a signal as two apprentices came in to remove the carcass. A third was behind them with cloth, kneeling to mop up the mess.

"You did well, Altair," Al Mualim said quietly. He handed the bloody sword to the Altair, "and have earned the right to carry a blade once more."

He took the blade, taking a cloth offered from the apprentice and wiped it clean. "What will become of the one who helped him?" Perhaps Altair was to be sent to kill him.

"That remains to be seen," Al Mualim said coolly, walking behind the table. "Some do ill out of ignorance or fear. These men can be saved," he turned to face Altair, "Others suffer from corrupted wills, their minds poisoned and twisted. These men must be _destroyed_." Altair was vaguely surprised at the vehemence in the teacher's voice, but said nothing. "Soon enough we'll know what sort of man Jamal is."

Altair nodded. His investigation did not show Jamal's reasoning. Of course there would need to be an interview. Regardless.

"I've passed your test, then. What now?"

Al Mualim chuckled. "Aah, my child, we've only just begun." Altair hid back a bristle as Al Mualim picked up a scroll. "I hold here a list. Nine names adorn it. Nine men who need to die. They are plague-bringers, war makers," he set the list down. "Their power and influence corrupts the land and ensures the Crusades continue. You will find them; kill them. In doing so you'll sow the seeds of peace, both for the region, and for yourself. In this way, you might be redeemed." The apprentice bowed and left.

"Nine lives in exchange for mine." Altair nodded. His life _was_ worth many, after all. And it would restore his place. In this, he had no complaints. He may be doing things in a more time-consuming fashion, but he was still back to assassinating. He could show his skill once more.

"A most generous offer, I think. Have you any questions?" the teacher went to the small pigeon coop kept in the library.

"Only where I need begin," he replied, resigned to doing things the hard way, but grateful that he could finally _do_ things. Once out in a large city, he could go back to doing things the way he wished.

"Very well. Ride for Damascus. Seek out the black market merchant named Tamir. Let him be the first to fall," Al Mualim pulled out a pigeon, stroking it gently. "Be sure to visit the city's Assassin Bureau when you arrive. I'll dispatch a bird to inform the _rafiq_ of your arrival. Speak with him. You'll find he has much to offer." He let the bird out of a window that had been opened to ward off the afternoon heat.

"If you believe it best," Altair said respectfully.

"I do. Besides, you cannot begin your mission without his consent." Al Mualim gave a cold smile.

"What _nonsense_ is this?" Altair demanded hotly. "I don't _need_ his permission, it's a waste of time."

"It's the price you pay for the mistakes you've made. You answer not only to me, but all the brotherhood as well now." It was a sharp reminder that he was still considered a _novice_.

"So _be_ it." The _rafiq_ would not be there for everything Altair did. He could still do as he wished.

"Take your equipment and go," Al Mualim turned to the window. "Prove that you are not yet lost to us." The dismissal was clear.

Altair picked up the sheath for the sword and attached it to his belt. Once sheathed, he delicately picked up his hidden blade, checking the sharpness, the spring, the leather and metal guards. Everything was as it should be with his hidd _en blade, and it felt so good to have it back on his arm._

_Turning, Altair headed down to the stables. He had work to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you play the game, you don't always get an idea of Desmond. He just sort of wanders around and stays silent. But we have to believe that he's not just quietly doing what he's told and saying "Yessir". He has to be trying to assess his situation and planning escape. Plus it was fun to put in little things like actual eating. ^_^
> 
> Frankly, I'm not sure what to say about this chapter, we're all focused on the Weather Channel and trying to figure out if Hurricane Irene is going to decimate us tomorrow or not. Sorry, not much to say as a result.


	3. Trying to Synch

Desmond blinked at the white fog area with the strange floating symbols. "Whoa," he whispered.

His previous times "waking up" had been when he'd been pulled out of the Animus and it had been disorienting and jarring. Here, surrounded by fog, he was at least able to come back to himself.

" _Just a moment and we'll pull you out, Desmond._ "

He nodded, taking a moment to look at the hidden blade on his wrist and the sword at his hip. The sword that had just slain Masun. He shuddered. This was... bizarre. He was still dressed as that arrogant ancestor of his and, idly, he wondered if the Animus would ever show him dressed as who he really was.

... Probably too much effort for the old codger with the god-complex to program.

There was a distinct pulse at the base of his skull before Desmond was looking up at the white ceiling of the Animus room. He moved his head from side to side, shocked that he wasn't as disoriented as he was previously. Sitting up still proved he wasn't on steady legs yet, however, as he slumped forward enough to put his head into his hands.

"I must say," the oily voice of War _den_ stated, "you're adoption rate has far exceeded our expectations."

"Gee, thanks," Desmond grumbled, rubbing his temples. Beneath him, the Animus was still warm, but it seemed that some of its lights had gone dark.

The old bastard continued, undaunted. "I mean it. Previous subjects have not been able to adapt as swiftly as you have. Very impressive, Mr. Miles."

Desmond turned to glare at the high-and-mighty, sitting at his raised throne. Then what he said caught up to him and his blood chilled. "Previous subjects?"

Lucy moved a food cart into his line of vision, a clear message to start eating lunch.

"Yes, Mr. Miles. Surely you don't think you're all that _special_ , now do you?"

He didn't even dignify that with a response, instead getting up and walking on steadier legs to his room and back to the bathroom. Part of it was a need to relieve himself, but mostly the information that War _den_ had just gloated at him had rocked his little world.

Desmond might not be alone. Other people might be here and in need of escape. They had spoken of being able to induce a coma and that it would make the process slower, but Desmond hadn't quite put two and two together to equate _other subjects_. He'd thought it was theory or experimenting on volunteers, if he'd even thought about it.

But _damn_ , if they'd grabbed him, didn't that mean that previous subjects were no longer usable? Were they even still around to be saved?

He washed his face and took a deep breath. He couldn't do anything now. _Nothing_. And that was so frustrating. All he could do was think and plan. Ergh. He _needed_ more information. Working with nothing well and truly _sucked_.

Deep breath.

He walked back to the main room and ignored the gloating look on Dr. Dickhead's face.

"So, I'm apparently good at this," he said nonchalantly, though there was still the slightest of quivers in his voice.

"Eat up, Desmond. We estimate that full meals will help you go through these memories faster."

"Yeah, I'll bet," he mumbled, picking up the sandwich from the tray. "Don't suppose I could order a Downhome Ditch Digger?"

"A... what?" Lucy asked, her brows raising in confusion.

"Four parts vodka, six parts Jack Daniels, nine parts tequila, and a few drops of lemon and Tabasco sauce. In a shot-glass of course."

"Oh... Um..."

"You strike me as a Sand-Grown-Un."

"Mr. Miles, you're wasting time," War _den_ growled.

"I can't say you're as classy for a drink," Desmond replied with a faint smile. "I think a simple Boiler Maker. I don't even have to mix that."

"Mr. Miles!"

Desmond bit into his sandwich to hide a smile. Right, cavalier got under the old goat's skin.

"Okay, maybe not a Boiler Maker. Maybe a Macaco-Loco."

" _Mr. Miles_!"

"Fine, fine. A Mad Cow then."

His warden finally turned around, red in the cheeks and muttering. Desmond chanced a glance at Lucy to find her hiding a smile behind her hand and attempting to focus on the screen.

With everyone officially distracted, Desmond took a moment to study the room again since he'd missed his chance the previous day. Most of the wall that had the observation window was lined with servers and computer banks, each with glowing green lights flickering with processing. It explained why the room was always so cold. So many units needed a lot of air conditioning to avoid overheating.

...And Desmond didn't dare pick apart any of them because he would lay money down that all those servers were powering through their processors for the Animus. The ceiling in here was even higher than his room, no doubt part of War _den_ 's god-complex. The Animus, and everything associated with it, was far too complicated for Desmond to try and tackle. A loose wire might mess _him_ up, and he doubted he'd be able to figure it out, even with a manual and diagrams.

His best bet at getting information was the two computers. The one at Dr. Dickhead's desk and the one at the Animus.

Hacking them would be difficult though. Granted, Desmond had a fair bit of skill at the basics, as evidenced by hiding for so long under assumed names and fake ids. But hacking required his own system, his own set up. A program to crack passwords or a keylogger that he could embed into another system. He didn't have any of that. He would be left guessing passwords manually or he'd just have to pray that someone forgot to log off.

Desmond glanced at Lucy over his cup of water. She was his best bet at somehow sweet-talking into staying logged on or giving a password.

Of course, Desmond needed to be able to even _leave his room_ in order to do anything.

One step at a time.

"If you're quite finished, Mr. Miles," the old codger said sourly.

"Just a sec, doc," Desmond replied flippantly. He returned to the bathroom, if for not other reason to ensure that a quick need for a rest stop after his next session in the Animus didn't become an opportunity to lock him in his room. He'd stay out and about as long as he could once he was himself again.

Desmond stepped out of the beeping door again and hid a grin at seeing the old bastard turned away from the Animus. Lucy looked up as he entered. "Let's resume," she said gently.

He tried not to show hesitation on getting onto that machine again. He wasn't sure how successful he was but he just let out a silent sigh and leaned back, watching the visor come up with the strange triangle/A symbol. The machine started to warm and there was pressure along the back of his skull.

Desmond looked around waiting area. _Loading again,_ he thought to himself.

With a sigh, he looked at the hidden blade, fiddling his wrist around to figure out the trigger until he caught the hang of it. He rhythmically sheathed and unsheathed it, set to a beat of a song he'd liked but not heard in years.

It was something to do.

" _Desmond. We seem to be having a problem._ "

Well isn't that a crying shame.

"Problem?"

" _We can't load you right to Damascus. You'll have to get there on your own_."

"... All this expensive machinery and technology and you can't just drop me off where you need me to? Isn't that a waste of time that's distinctly _not_ my fault?"

" _Don't be so coy, Mr. Miles. While the Animus is the crowning achievement of my research, it is_ not _a God that can magically create a world with the wave a finger._ "

_No, but that's what you want it to be._

Desmond smiled, but decided not to comment. He'd poked enough for now. Best not to aggravate his captor any more. Time to go back to being a good little prisoner.

"So where will I be?"

" _Masyaf_ ," Lucy replied.

He nodded as the white fog cleared, plunking him back in the library where his ancestor had just gotten orders to go off and kill people.

Right. Where were the stables again? "So," he asked, the scholars bustling around the shelves ignoring him, "how do I know where the stables are?"

" _Ah, we haven't explained that yet, have we?_ " Lucy's disembodied voice said. " _Say 'Map,' and then 'Masyaf,' and you'll have it in your pack._ "

"Right." This didn't feel silly. Nope, not at all. "Map, Masyaf." He heard a faint rustle and reached into the pack strapped to the back of his belts and pulled out a small scroll. It was indeed a map. He recognized the stage area where his many-greats-grandfather had found Masun and the small market area at the base of the mountain. In fact, there was even a clear marker of pen, not quill, that pointed out where the stables where.

"Well okay then."

Desmond descended the stairs to the main entranceway, not liking how the assassin guards just looked hollowly at him. He exited the fortress without any complications or any memories triggering, but he could only hope that that would happen when he got to the stables. Masyaf had pretty much one road down the mountain, and the stables appeared to be outside the gates, at least from what he remembered of when Altair had ridden up from Solomon's Temple. So he put the map back in his pouch and walked with the crowds down the mountain. He navigated the crowd easily, never bumping into anyone, but he had to admit to be a little freaked out at all the blank looks.

Halfway down the mountain, Desmond decided to do something crazy. He walked up to a guard who was just randomly standing by the sheer face of a mountain, and waved his arm in front of him.

The guard didn't even blink.

" _This is just a construct, Desmond,_ " Lucy's voice filtered down. " _Unless you interact directly, pushing someone or attacking, nobody will really pay any attention since they aren't really there. It's just an approximation that the Animus puts together._ "

"So I'm in a video game filled with NPCs. Gotta say, doc, I didn't picture you as a gamer."

" _That's enough, Mr. Miles. Get back to work_."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, turning to the road once more.

Once he got to the base of the mountain, he walked through the gates to find the small stables. There were only three horses available and Desmond hesitated. He hadn't ridden a horse since he was a kid and, construct or not, a horse was a big and powerful animal to be treated with respect. The horses were all calm, tails and ears flicking occasionally. Looking between the three, he chose the white one on some hazy feeling that this was the horse for Damascus. Not that he understood that feeling in the slightest.

He gave a quick brushing and tied on the saddle, checking all the clasps and buckles to make sure they were snug. He led the horse out and glanced around.

"Come on, shouldn't this be triggering something?"

But nothing happened. Desmond didn't feel himself fall in synch with an ancestor many times removed and just... fade. He was still wandering around.

So Project Wander Aimlessly would be continued.

Of all the stupid...

He mounted slowly, but as glad to see his body still remembered from back when he was on the farm. He and the whi _te_ _Arabian, good to hide in the rich Damascus_ , _br_ oke into an easy trot and Desmond was glad to feel the wind on his face. It wasn't his motorcycle, but it was good nonetheless. He saw almost no one as he traveled down the valley aside from a random traveler that he easily avoided.

Oh, there were some downed palm trees. Desmond leaned forward, kicking his heels sharply and the horse took off at a fast gallop, easily clearing the fallen tree.

Ahhh, that felt good. He let the horse fall back to a trot as he passed under ancient, dilapidated arches. For the briefest of moments, Desmond thought he saw the white fog with symbols of the waiting area swirl around him, but a blink later he was back in the valley. There were some assassin flags marking on either side, and guards staying at attention.

Desmond shrugged. He continued riding down the valley, amazed at all the detail the Animus could project. Even on his horse, he could feel a breeze, though in a strange disconnect, he could also _not_ feel a breeze, since he wasn't really here.

He passed some strange sort of watch tower that appeared useless, given how the cliffs of Masyaf's mountain were still too tall to see by and exited the valley. Looking ahead, he paused as there were two paths he could chose from. One to the left, one to the right.

The horse shook its head and then lowered it to nibble on what little growth there was in the hot summer.

"Uh, Map... where am I again?"

" _The Kingdom, Mr. Miles. I would have thought that obvious._ "

"Fine, _which_ kingdom?"

" _Tut, tut, Mr. Miles. You clearly don't know your history._ "

Desmond bit back a growl.

" _You're in the Third Crusade,_ " Lucy explained, ever helpful and infinitely nicer. " _That was when King Richard tried to take the Holy Land from the ruler Saladin_."

"All one kingdom," Desmond muttered. Sala _h ad-Din,_ _leader of the Saracens_. "Map, Kingdom."

There was a rustle in one of his packs and he pulled out the map.

Desmond looked at the map. _Really_ looked at the map. Then he looked to the sky. "Are you _kidding_ me? It's a blurry mess!"

There was a moment of silence.

" _It appears, Mr. Miles, you don't synch as well with your ancestor as I thought._ "

"Oh, so this is _my_ fault?"

" _I'm working on it, Desmond. But you should have some basics from this map, right?_ "

Desmond scowled at the sky. "Yeah, basics that are _wrong_. Masyaf is in Syria, right? Damascus is most certainly _not_ to the east, Jerusalem is _not_ parallel to Acre, hell, Arsuf is closer to Jerusalem than Acre. You're map is totally wrong!"

There was another heavy pause.

" _And how do you know this, Mr. Miles? Are you synchronizing already?_ "

Desmond rolled his eyes. "What do you take me for, some self-absorbed idiot? Tell me, where were all of _you_ when Egypt had its peaceful revolution last year? I can't tell you how many customers were cheering for Egypt, worrying about what Egypt's policy on Israel would be with new leadership, hoping that the revolution would spread to other middle-eastern countries, worrying how it would affect the goddamn oil prices, and so on and so forth. God, the place was packed when Mubarak finally resigned, lots of celebration. The news had maps up of the area and I did a little research on my own time." He narrowed his eyes. "I say again, your map is _wrong_."

Apparently they weren't expecting him to keep up on world events if the stunned silence was anything to go by.

"Fine. East it is." He turned his horse and started to trot again, hoping _somewhere_ along the way he would do this synch-thing they wanted and go back to being a watcher. He still kept an eye on his map, blurred as it was, since the pen mark of his location was always clear. That way at least, he knew if he'd get of course.

Riding uphill, Desmond reigned in his horse and stared at a stone signpost.

" _English_ ," he muttered, "the signs in the Arabic world are in _English_. Sure they are."

" _It was the best I could do with the map being so blurry, Desmond_ ," Lucy's voice replied.

... Well, that had to count as _something_.

With a sigh Desmond took off again at a mile-eating trot. This may be a construct, but he knew better than to force a horse to do nothing but gallop. Who knew what this programmed beast could do? Besides, Desmond reasoned, if he did things the way a _normal_ person did, maybe he'd randomly synch.

The trail was mostly dirt. He couldn't label it entirely as sand, though the summer heat might turn it into such by the end of the season. The mountainous region had a way of just holding the heat down and the fact that it was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, wasn't helping. More than once, Desmond reached for his water-skin, though he knew it wasn't real, for no other reason that to trick his body into thinking that he was getting relief from the damned heat. Lunch in that frozen air-conditioned room seemed like a lifetime ago as he passed heat-wilting trees. Any shrubs were low-lying and even their greens were starting to dull.

Desmond found another watchtower, this one guarded as well. He reigned in his horse again.

It wasn't the white or gray turbans of the assassins, like he'd seen at Masyaf. Nor was it chain-mail and armor like he'd expect of the Crusaders. The brown leathers and dark turbans marked them as the only other force Desmond could expect in the area. Saracen. Lucy and War _den_ had mentioned that if he interacted with anything directly he might be able to trigger a memory.

Desmond hesitated. Deliberately starting a fight with guards hardly seemed like a bright idea. Plus, he knew how to fist-fight. Not sword-fight. And those guys had some sharp-looking swords.

He still remembered getting stabbed by Al Mualim, thank you. He didn't care to repeat the process.

So Desmond kept a safe distance, after checking his blurred map, decided to go down into the town below. It was a small village, even smaller than what he'd seen of Masyaf. There was a line of merchant stands with carts behind them that held the wares. Desmond paused by the well to get a bucket of water for his horse. But to his surprise, it didn't seem to work.

" _You're here to synchronize, Mr. Miles. Not waste time._ "

Desmond glanced at the sky, but said nothing. This was a construct. It wasn't real.

... It could sure feel real though. His horse gave a small neigh but just stood there patiently.

Desmond mounted again and decided to wander around the town. Who knows, maybe his ancestor had spent the night here or something and he could synchronize that way.

He had explored almost every nook and cranny and was about to give up when there was a loud shout in something that sounded distinctly like German. Desmond turned around to see what was going on, since most of the people he saw were silent, when something grabbed his foot and dragged him off his horse. The mount neighed loudly and took off away from the fight as Desmond tried to orient himself and _see_ past such a damn _low_ hood.

"What the hell?" he shouted.

More German was thrown viciously in his direction. He barely pushed his hood back enough to see when a massive sword came plummeting towards him.

"Ack!" Desmond rolled away and onto his feet, looking at a tall, tall man in chain mail, a white smock and red helmet. "What'd I _do_?" he demanded, backing up as the sword swung at him again.

Above him, War _den_ only chuckled.

_Bastard_.

People around them that had been vacant before started screaming and running back. Desmond took a moment to think between swings and reacting on pure adrenaline. Like it or not, he _did_ know how to fight. Aside from what he had learned growing up, Desmond had been a bouncer briefly before getting his bartending license. He'd had to break up scuffles before. Including thugs who got their hands on some kind of weapon.

_It's just a broom, just a broom, just a broom_ , he thought to himself, trying to visualize something _other_ than a big, armored, _armed_ , experienced knight trying to kill him.

He dodged again, trying to get to a side, but the sword came at him aga _in and this Templar was far too stubborn. He pulled out his sword, held it up in a firm block, and as the blade slid easily away from him, he twisted into the Templar's guard and thrust his hand forward, letting the hidden blade easily slide between the gaps of armor and burying it into the hea_ rt.

Desmond gasped as the people still nearby screamed and ran away.

He pulled away quickly, looking down at his hands. His hands that had an unsheathed hidden blade and a naked sword.

"What... the... _hell_?" he shuddered. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, what the _hell_ just happened?"

He... he... he had just _killed_ someone. Something he'd _sworn_ he'd never do. And he wasn't even sure how the _hell_ he did it... and his hands weren't even covered in blood.

"Not real, not real, not real," he muttered to himself. "Didn't just kill a guy, didn't just kill a guy, dear _God_ I just killed someone..."

" _Oh, do calm down Mr. Miles. This is what you do as an Assassin, isn't it?_ "

"I am _not_ an Assassin," Desmond growled back. He sat down, shaking and holding himself.

" _It's okay, Desmond_ ," Lucy's voice was softer and more understanding. " _I understand that someone's first kill is the most difficult. But until you synch with your ancestor, you may need to kill more of these 'NPC's as you call them. They're not real. You're not harming anyone_."

"You think that _fucking_ matters?" he shouted. "I may be in a machine, but this is _real_ to me. It's not me mashing buttons on a controller or waving my arms for motion-control. This is me, in my body, with my own consciousness, taking a life. And no matter how you rationalize it, that's _wrong_."

Desmond didn't hold a higher moral ground. But killing people was a fruitless endeavor. He'd left because he didn't want to kill anyone. Take down one sicko and there was always another to take his place. And he'd seen what happened to the people who actually went out and _killed_. They were hardened. Cold. A part of them was trapped in stone because every time they killed someone, a piece of that person died as well.

No matter how rationalized or "just" murder was, it still was murder.

And Desmond had somehow, _instinctually_ , no less, taken a life.

Real or not.

_You're a_ prisoner _, you idiot. Knowledge. Keep it together, you moron_.

"Oh my, who could have done this?" Desmond looked up. The people - the _NPCs_ \- had returned to their basic routines. Despite having just seen him kill the knight, _Templar_ , they didn't recognize him. The person who had spoken was a woman, sent to collect water from the jar she held on her head.

Desmond held back a soft sigh, shaking himself.

Later. He could deal with everything later.

It _had_ to be later.

His horse had come up to him again, and was nibbling at the end of his coattails.

He patted the nose and ran a hand along the cheek, letting the big animal butt his head gently against Desmond's torso.

" _We're waiting, Mr. Miles._ "

Desmond didn't reply. He just stood up and got back on the horse.

The rhythmic riding helped Desmond clear his head as he pushed his horse from an easy trot to a fast gallop, as he did when he was troubled as a kid.

It felt like ages before he'd cleared the town and was back on a pass going uphill.

He was sweating. The heat of the day was bearing down heavily and Desmond was surprised that his ancestor's robes weren't getting damp with sweat. He passed another crossroads with signs in English and let himself chuckle as a distraction.

The road curved above a small lake and Desmond stopped for a moment to look at the small settlement. He still avoided all the guards, even more adamantly now. In a narrow pass between another watchtower and a cliff, he slowed his horse to a walk and leaned forward, keeping his head down. The pass held several Saracen guards standing formally and facing each other. He didn't want any part of that. It was better to stay on the road than wander into the town. He didn't want to end up in another fight again.

Desmond stuck to the road that seemed to be heading north by his blurred map. It lead to another watchtower overlooking not a settlement, but an army encampment. The tents and cook-fires all seemed to belong to the Saracen troops lining the area. Desmond rode very quietly, staying close to the stream and even stopping to let his horse water itself. Not that it did.

After easing through the camp, he kept following the stream until he saw broken down stone arches similar to what he saw at the entrance of Masyaf.

Passing through them, Desmond once again saw the white fog swirl before blinking. He crested a hill and held back a gasp.

The city below him was _massive_.

"That's... Damascus?"

" _Yes._ "

The walls themselves were towering, yet beyond them he could see even _taller_ structures and he had no clue what was even _there_. He just sat there in awe.

"And I have to wander in _that_ huge place?"

" _Indeed. Chop, chop, Mr. Miles._ "

"Riiight." Shaking his head, Desmond turned and continued down the hillside's winding path. As he headed toward the nearby gate, he heard something amongst the palm trees.

"Don't hurt me, _please_!"

Desmond hesitated. After that horrible experience of killing someone, he didn't want any more trouble.

"You spread your lies, _filth,_ and blasphemy!"

"Please, you're hurting me!"

Desmond sighed. He dismounted and walked through the lower greenery to find Saracen guards jostling an old man around.

This was the first real conversation he'd heard since entering the Animus, so this might be important. A way to synchronize.

... He _really_ didn't want to fight.

"Somebody, _help_ me!"

... Nor could he leave someone in trouble like that. Not really.

He pounded his fists together. If he could catch them by surprise, he wouldn't have to hurt anyone.

The fight wasn't quite the same as the brawls he'd participated in. But he was able to disarm them easily and leave it to just fists, which was much easier. These Saracen guards didn't seem as swift as the previous knight had been, giving Desmond plenty of opportunity to get in jabs and punches before each went down. None of them even laid a hand on him once they were disarmed. That was... surprisingly simple after the fight with the knight.

"Is that the last of them?" The old man wheezed. Desmond helped him up. "I hope so."

Desmond nodded. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know what's been going on lately, do you?"

The old man stared vacantly at him. "Still, best not to take any chances. I'll hurry home."

"I asked you a question."

"Don't think I'll leave it again any time soon either. You've done me a kindness young man. Be assured, I won't forget it."

Desmond sighed. NPCs and scripted dialogue.

The white fog swirled, however, and instead of an old man, there were a long line of scholars, all dressed in white, some of them hooded, walking by and heading into town.

"Well, I guess that will work," Desmond muttered, joining the crowd.

Once he passed the gates, Desmond just took a moment to openly stare. He was in a massive square; wooden stalls with people selling wares, clay buildings. Frocks, turbans, bare feet and sandals, giant clay jars that balanced on women's heads, wood scaffolding and crates, chicken coops, dogs barking and dissonant voices that didn't quite make sense.

"This..." Desmond muttered, "This is one hell of a 'construct.' "

" _We don't have time to be impressed, Mr. Miles; just trigger the next memory._ "

Control freak.

There were two major roads, one to his left and one to his right. Picking one at random, he went right, wondering what he was supposed to do. The vacant eyed NPCs milled and walked and marched. Guards passed on patrols in tight formation, hands perpetually on the hilts of their swords. Beggars with diseased hands and feet flitted from one person to the next begging for some money. Merchants tried to catch people's attention with loud, smooth, welcoming voices.

Suddenly entering shade, Desmond looked up to see that wooden boards had been dropped randomly over the street he was on, resting on the upper roofs of the buildings. The natural shade made it seem perhaps slightly cooler, he wasn't sure; the street was packed with people and merchants, and the body heat - or his mind creating body heat - made the temperature hard to determine. Leaving the market, he entered another square, sided with a river dotted with boats and wooden platforms that acted as docks. Desmond looked out, trying to remember last year when he was wandering the internet during Egypt's protests. What was the name of this river? He doubted he knew b _ut it was the Barada River controlled by th_ e who? Frowning, Desmond followed the river, crossing a bridge and seeing a smattering of houses butted up against the city walls.

He walked some more, trying to figure out how to trigger a memory. The city was so _alien_ to him, the architecture was so old and primitive, there was just so much wood and clay, and yet there were some finely crafted arched windows and glass - which he thought was a commodity for the rich in ye olden times - but then this was the desert, they probably had the right kind of sand for blowing glass right under his feet. He looked down, suddenly curious, and crouched down. His hand swept over the pounded dirt at his feet, but none of it clung to his fingers. Rubbing them, he could sense no grit between his pads. Frowning again, he righted himself and rubbed his feet along the earth, and dust swirled.

It reminded him, once again, that he was in a machine-generated construct wired into his own mind. This was screwed up.

Muttering under his breath he started to backtrack to the bridge to cross it. A swarm of guards, however, was on it patrolling, and Desmond was still not keen about starting another fight. He didn't want to kill anyone, imaginary or not. He left the assassins for a reason. Grunting, he saw a platform dock across the river and decided to just swim for it. He hopped easily over the safety rail (did they call them safety rails back then?) and dived into the water.

And was promptly surrounded by white fog.

"Huh?"

_"Sorry about that,"_ Lucy said, _"The Animus isn't perfect. The subroutines for swimming still haven't been properly beta-ed."_

"So I can't freaking _swim_ here? What a piece of crap! Just how is this realistic?"

_"Just focus on finding the_ memory _, Mr. Miles,_ " Dr. Dick said.

Control freak! God complex!

Cursing colorfully, Desmond found himself back on the dirt street he was on before he had jumped. Stomping like a child, he shoved his way through the crowd, heedless of their catcalls and admonishments as he marched back to the bridge to cross it. That proved to be a mistake, because one of the people he pushed was a guard, and suddenly the group he'd been trying to avoid was turning their full attention to him.

"Infidel die!"

"Aw, come _on_!" and Desmond turned and ran.

He had no idea what he was doing, of course, only that he had to get away. He never really had to run before; well, not with people literally at his heels, and he was ducking left and right into alleys and streets to get away.

"You cannot run forever!"

Shit he was not having a good day. Not a good day at all! He took a sharp right followed almost immediately by another and found himself in another square. He sat hurriedly on a bench and put his head down, staring at his feet and pulling his stupid hood as far forward as it could go. He was panting. He dared not look up as he heard a dozen pounding footfalls rush past him coupled with vicious epitaphs. Heart pounding, he looked up to the sky.

"You forget to program swimming but you remember to program how to piss off guards? You got some screwed up priorities, doc!"

_"All in the name of science,"_ War _den_ said in his smarmy voice, " _Which would an assassin likely do? Swim in a desert or provoke the peacekeepers?"_

Piece of shit.

Now even more pissed off, Desmond finally deemed safe to look up.

He had no idea where he was.

He spent the next five minutes using every curse word he knew.

Still grumbling, he closed his eyes to the idiocy and said, "Map, Damascus," and quickly ripped out the paper to see what the hell he was supposed to do.

It was blank.

"Alright, _now_ what the hell am I supposed to do?" he demanded. "I don't know the city, and the stupid map doesn't either!"

_"The memory, Mr. Miles. You're so easily distracted."_

"Fuck you," he muttered under his breath.

_"I heard that."_

Outright growling now, Desmond stomped off, trying to find a familiar landmark or building that gave him a clue where he was. The river, the marketplace, something. Twenty minutes later he was still lost and he'd long since learned to ignore Dr. Dickhead's less that polite prodding. He was starting to get lost in his own thoughts, and there were a lot of them.

He had no idea how many "subjects" there were before him, but there had to have been quite a few for the construct to be this detailed. He imagined there must have been a lot of trial and error to see what triggered genetic memory and what didn't, and also trial and error over the whole coma schtick... the thought made him shiver in the mi-dafternoon heat-that-wasn't-heat. He rubbed his forehead. Were any of them still alive? Or was it a "replace when expired" deal? How could he factor that into his escape? Also, just how many scrapes was he going to get into in this stupid machine, he wasn't comfortable in the slightest at the idea of killing people. Even imaginary ones. He was supposed to be digging around here for information and he hadn't really learned a lot. Moreover, he didn't know how much of this was private, was there anything he did in the Animus that his captors didn't see? Well, other than his thoughts at any rate. He still didn't know how Lucy factored in, other than sympathetic, and he hadn't really had the chance to play up on that. He hoped she wasn't attached to Warren at the hip. The idea of a hot blonde with the grizzly old fart did not help his mental state, and he growled again.

Throwing his hands up he decided to stop wandering aimlessly. He obviously wasn't going to trigger any memories _this_ way, and he decided it would be better if he just started at the beginning. He had to find the city gate, and to do that he needed to get high enough to find a city wall and follow it.

Looking up, he saw a spire of some kind shooting high above all the other buildings around him. He looked around for a ladder of some kind but found none in any immediate sight. He didn't want to get lost again (or at least, lost relative to the helpful looking spire) and so he grit his teeth and took a running leap up the side of a one story building, his hands just reaching the roofline, and hoisted himself up. He hopped up a crate to another story and turned around. Orienting himself, he could see the city wall was about as far away from him as he could get, and the gate even father. He couldn't see the streets well enough, however, to plot a route to the gate.

Spire it was, then.

A wooden platform was hanging off a support beam, perhaps for construction, and Desmond backed up slightly before taking a running start. The platform didn't sway under his feet like he was expecting - another failing of the construct no doubt - and he stumbled and nearly missed the jump necessary to get to the spire. As it was, he missed his original handhold he was aiming for and smacked the corner of the roof with his abdomen. Air rushed out of his lungs and he coughed, desperate for oxygen, before getting a leg up and pulling himself onto the roof.

"I have to go through this shit _nine_ times before we get to the locked memory?" he muttered. "Oh, yeah, this is going to be a walk in the freakin' park."

Taking a deep breath he looked at the spire, his eyes trailing up. He circled it once, looking for what the best handholds would be. The first part was going to be the hardest, that was a sheer face and he only hoped he could leap up enough to reach that one decorative stone poking out. If he could...

He took another running leap and managed to get his handhold. It was, well, not simple, but manageable after that. He wasn't a great climber, but he was passable. Hell, since this was taking place all in his head he was probably a great climber, and he eventually was able to ascend the spire. An eagle was circling around it, and, working around, he saw a beam of wood sticking out. Getting a grip, he hoisted himself up.

All at once, something felt...

He had _done_ this before. Not him, but the other guy, his ancestor, had sat on this spire. The view was panoramic, impressive. He could see the narrow street that served as the marketplace, the wooden planks visible from here. There was a massive structure with an arched roof, another huge building with domes sticking out of its roof. The other guy had sat here, he was sitting here now; Desmond could almost see him crouched at the end of the beam. There was a parallel sense of someone else being there, thinking, contemplating.

_This was where Malik was apprenticed, what was the_ rafiq _like? Was it here that he changed?_

And then, just like that, the guy, _Altair_ , he leapt off the beam.

Desmond stared, started to follow, but at the last second that he realized what he was doing and there was _no way in hell_ he was going to deliberately jump to his death. He stopped himself, losing his balance and forcing him to grip the beam with both hands. He cursed, suddenly breathing hard. "What the hell was that?" he muttered.

_"Desmond? Did something happen? Your synch ratio changed."_

"I... I don't know," Desmond answered. "I felt this really strong déjà vu, I think that guy sat here once, or something." He looked out over the city, and he found a long string of low-rise houses butted up against each other towards the center of the city. It had, instead of a clay dome, a metal one - brass maybe. "There," he whispered, and he looked down, down dozens of feet to the haystack below.

"Like hell," he muttered, and he began the laborious task of working his way down.

He stuck to the rooftops after that. He could keep the arched building and the giant domed one in his sites and helped give him reference to where he was going. He could also catch sight of the metal dome he was heading for. He was certain he was right as he heard wind chimes. It was cinched when Desmond saw the symbol on the roof. Hopping down, he circled the building, looking for a door.

He found none.

"Seriously?" he demanded. "I finally get here and I can't even get in?"

_"Assassin Bureaus have their entrances on the roof,"_ Lucy said, trying to be helpful.

Riiiight, because that made _perfect_ sense. Huffing, Desmond looked for a ladder and climbed back up, marching over to the bottomless triangle. The latticework only covered part of an indoor courtyard, and Desmond eyed it slowly. There was a fountain - probably a luxury - and several decorative pillows and a carpet. He shrugged his shoulders. "What the hell," he said, and ho _pped into the Bureau._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While we don't spend a lot of time with Desmond just wandering around the Animus (certainly not as much time as we as gamers make him :D), we did want to take some time. How many of us, when we first played the game, just wandered around, examining every nook and cranny and just seeing how alien and visually fascinating it was? Er, and we at least still do...
> 
> We also wanted to take the time to note the differences between the Animus and the limits the machine has. Even Rebecca in ACII can't put in everything, and we thought it was worthy of note.
> 
> And we like yanking Desmond's chain. Potty mouth aside (which we hate writing) he gets some funny reactions.
> 
> The stop off for lunch we felt was necessary. He never eats in the game, only sleeps, and we just didn't have it in us to starve the poor man...
> 
> As always, let us know what you think!


	4. Death of a Deathdealter

Altair had spent a long time on the roof of the Damascus Bureau, listening to the wind chimes and just thinking. He stared, long and hard, at the iron ring hanging from a pole, used for target practice; Malik had explained in his letters that it was very small, and they threw from longer and longer distances, early in the morning when the sun was almost blinding them. It would have been one of Malik's best skills. How was he healing?

Altair shook his head, hopping down into the Bureau. The door to the building was restricted to customers of their cover business, in this case pottery. There were no apprentices or journeymen below. That was not uncommon, and he walked through to the inner chamber, the "back room" that customers never entered. He had been to Damascus during his apprenticeship on different missions, but he had been to the Bureau only two or three times. The _rafiq_ Ibtisam was in his fifth decade, his hair still dark but the lines of his face were pronounced; he had a smooth, soft voice and was very amiable.

"Altair," he said softly, "It is good to see you, and in one piece."

"You as well, friend," Altair said, glad for the welcoming voice.

"I am sorry for your troubles."

"Think nothing of it," he answered. His problems were his own; he did not wish to worry others.

"A few of your brothers were here earlier, in fact. Ooh, if you'd heard the things they said... I'm certain you would have slain them where they stood." The _rafiq_ twirled a paintbrush in his hand with the skill of one who often wielded a knife before putting a delicate stroke on a large jar he was working on. His tone sounded strange.

"It's quite alright," Altair said, finding himself wary.

"Yes," he drew out, "You've never been one for the Creed, have you?" And suddenly the demoted assassin was listening to the cutting words of Malik. This, then, was where he learned to use his clever tongue.

"Is that all?" he growled, suddenly angry.

The warm, welcoming face of Ibtisam disappeared, his hard frown visible under his dark beard. "No, not at all," he answered. "You've no idea what you've done to my best apprentice; you have no idea what the role of a _rafiq_ is for, do you? When that convenient collapse occurred, you assumed Malik and his brother dead, yes? What was your first thought after that? Did you go to the _rafiq_? Use his resources and informants to confirm that conclusion? Did you beg guidance or ask for a distraction as you left? No, you did none of those things; you crawled back to the Master so he could absolve you of your sins. You bypassed the chain of command and as a result nearly brought ruination to the entire order. The Templars would not have known where to go if Malik had not been so desperate to chase you; the _rafiq_ would have distracted them and thrown them off the scent but no, you were so self-absorbed you ignored the best and closest resource you have. You are a failure."

Then, just as quickly as it had gone, the welcoming face came back. "I'm sorry; sometimes I forget myself. What business brings you to my city?"

"... A man named Tamir," Altair said. Better to deal with business at hand. "Al Mualim takes issue with the work he does. I am meant to end it, now tell me where to find him." Better to get this meeting over with.

"Surely you remember how to track an enemy?" the _rafiq_ asked, his smile warm but his eyes cold and amused.

"Of course," Altair grunted, " 'Learn where he will be an when.' But that sort of work is best left for-"

He stopped. Really stopped. He thought of the _rafiq_ 's bitter words, that Altair did not use others in the Order for help. Perhaps... perhaps he _should_ have gone to the Bureau, if for no other reason than to learn if Malik and Kadar were truly dead or not. In that, at least, the _rafiq_ was right, and Altair burned as he realized this truth. It was not just Al Mualim that he had disappointed, but the Jerusalem _rafiq_ , Baasir. The man was old, wizened, and patient beyond any natural measure; he taught many things to Altair, and he had done a disservice to bypass him. Because of this, he had disrespected all _rafiq_. Or at least, regardless of his personal interactions with them, all _rafiq_ felt as though he had disrespected them. It was more than Al Mualim's eyes that he needed this redemption for, then.

The thought brought him quiet.

Ibtisam, indeed, all _rafiq_ , would test him in some way. Tracking his targets himself was not a one-time test from the Master; it would need be done for all of his targets. He was still a _novice_. It was a bitter pill, made no easier with his realization, but then, that was the point of this exercise, was it not?

"... I understand," he said simply.

The _rafiq_ smiled. "Go and search the city, determine what he's planning, and where he works. 'Preparation makes the victor.' "

Altair swallowed. "What _can_ you tell me of him?" he asked, voice quiet.

"Tamir makes his living as a black market merchant, so the _souk_ district should be your destination, I would suggest you seek out the following places: a small _souk_ northeast of here, the _madrasah_ to our east, and in the gardens north of this Bureau. "

"I assume you want me to return to you when this is done."

"Yes. Come back to me; I'll give you Al Mualim's marker, and you'll give us Tamir's life."

"As you wish." He would earn the _rafiq's_ respect; he would make restitution for the error he made against Baasir.

"Remember Altair, if there is trouble you may seek shelter here, but not if the trouble is at your heels. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Altair said. "To bring the enemy inside would compromise the brotherhood." The third tenet of the Creed.

"Very well. Oh, and you should know, you'll find no help from your brothers here. Since you do not seek out aide from others, they will not offer their aide to you; you will have no informants for this mission. Off you go."

Altair hesitated, uncertain if he should say more, express in some way that he was, indeed, committed to earning the man's respect.

Ibtisam raised an eyebrow.

"What? Do you not know how to perform an investigation? No, of course you do, you're Altair. Well," he added, smirking, "Except for that last job, of course."

Respect be damned, Altair turned and left the Bureau, refusing to hit the man.

Irritated, he made his way north to the gardens the _rafiq_ had spoken of. It had been years since he had done any information gathering, the tasks were meant for apprentices and younger journeymen; it made them familiar with the city, helped them make specific or personal contacts, and tested the skills of their minds. As they proved their worth, the work shifted to the more physically demanding missions that the physical training such as target practice or swordplay prepared them for, once they were tall enough and advanced enough to handle it. This did not mean that Altair did not know how to search a city, but the constructed test at Masyaf did not do him any favors, either. Moreover, he did not know the city well, not like Malik likely did. He knew the _souk_ and the _madrasah_ , these were large structures one could not miss, but he was uncertain of the gardens Ibtisam spoke of. Huffing, he looked for a ladder to climb to a roof unobtrusively.

There was a spire in the distance, and he darted his way over and ascended it, sitting on a beam and looking out over the city. Reaching into his pack he made a rough sketch of the area with a piece of parchment and a bit of charcoal. He would need to climb another viewpoint later and create a more detailed sketch of the _souk_ ; if that was Tamir's place of business that was likely where the assassination would take place. Looking north, he found a cluster of palm trees, likely the garden the _rafiq_ had mentioned was there.

For a long time, he just sat there.

Looking down, he saw a haystack. The distance was great, he would be risking injury if he jumped, but he was feeling reckless and he leapt off the parapet with abandon. Adrenaline surged through him, the buildings rushed past him, an eagle screeched above him, wind assaulted his ears, and then he angled his fall at the last possible moment and plummeted into the hay, momentum driving him deep into the pile. His back banged heavily against the bottom of the cart and he lay there for several moments in the darkness of the hay, breathing, his blood pumping in his veins. If he had his short sword that would have been dangerous, his shoulder throbbed.

A deep breath, a pause, and he casually climbed out of the hay.

Rubbing his shoulder, he shook off the last bits of hay and made his way north. He would have a vicious bruise for that jump, but he felt better for it. Calmer, he could navigate the thick crowds of the district without being annoyed by them, without spoiling for a fight. He kept his ears open, hoping to find what the _Rafiq_ Ibtisam expected to be there. The older man had gotten a letter notifying him of Altair's arrival, no doubt also of Tamir's name so that he could begin reconnoitering the target. It was grating that he refused any of this information to Altair, and thinking of it made him irritated again. He realized why there were no apprentices or journeymen in the Bureau, no doubt they were all deliberately avoiding him - either by whim or design, or perhaps both.

What did it matter what others thought of him? So long as he got the job done?

Frowning, he paused. Had he just heard Tamir's name?

Doubling back, Altair ducked into a narrow alley and exited to another wide street. Some guards walked by on patrol, but two stood guard, dressed slightly differently, at a raised dais where a town crier was making a speech.

"Back in those days," the speaker said, "Tamir is said to have driven a caravan, and poor his business had been, none would buy his fruit and vegetables. But, as he traveled north he crossed paths with the Saracen army. They say that the men were starved. And Tamir gave of himself, offering his foodstuffs, and the Saracens ate their fill, for each had something the other wanted. Some say, were it not for Tamir, Salah ad-Din's men would surely have turned on him. It could even be we won the battle because of that man! When it was done, Salah ad-Din repaid Tamir for his generosity, one-thousand times over!"

Propaganda.

Altair watched as the crier pontificated for another hour, telling similar stories of Tamir's supposed greatness, how generous he was, how close he was to Salah ad-Din, how great his weapons were and how they saved the Saracen army several times over. Pretty stories; exaggerated and polished, too good to be true. But, say something often enough, loud enough, vehemently enough, and anyone would eventually start to believe it. Propaganda. Altair suddenly wondered if his own story had been turned into such, were his errors being spread to all corners of the Order and he made an example of? He did not care but for the fact that his work would be made all the more difficult for it.

He became angry.

The crier finished the last of his words, and stepped carefully off the dais, past the guards and merged into the crowd. Altair followed, one fist slapping into an open palm. Adrenaline from anticipation started to fill his blood, he wanted to see blood on this man. The man soon parted the crowd and into a heavily shadowed alley. Altair looked about, but saw no one. Perfect.

He grabbed the man and shoved him into the wall of a building. With a grip on his shoulders he yanked the crier back and slammed him again. Altair saw blood spatter on the wall, but he was not done yet; turning the little man around, he gave a vicious punch under the ribcage, bruising organs, and then punched again in the face, breaking the man's nose. Blood showered out of his nose, flying through the air, and at last Altair felt good.

"You seem to know quite a bit about Tamir," Altair said. "Tell me what he's planning."

"I know only the stories I tell, nothing more!" His words were slurred, his consonants blurry because of his broken nose.

"A pity," Altair said, raising a fist, "There's no reason to let you live if you've nothing to offer in return."

"Wait, wait! There is one thing!" the man cried, falling back to the ground in terror.

"Continue."

"He is preoccupied as of late. He oversees the production of many, many weapons. He constantly sees the blacksmiths and the merchants, determined to guide everything personally. The number of weapons is so large he works day and night."

Altair let himself snarl. "What of it? They are meant for Salah ad-Din. This does not help me, which means it does not help you." He kicked the man in the ribs.

"No, stop! Listen! Not Salah ad-Din!" Altair stopped, at last reaching the desired information. He stood perfectly still, a silent judge. The town crier was sniveling, hysterical, his words were high pitched and half shrieked. "They're for someone else! The crests these arms bear, they different, unfamiliar! It seems Tamir supports another, but I know not who!"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, yes! I've told you everything I know! Spare me!"

"Then it's time for you to rest." Altair offered a hand, lifting the man up, before plunging his hidden blade into the man's abdomen.

He left the alley after cleaning his blade on his red sash, the blood disappearing into the red silk. He walked slowly through several streets, blending into the crowd and drawing no attention to himself, before finding a ladder and taking to the roofs again. He made his way east, towards the _souk_ , to see what more he could learn of this unusual shipment. If Tamir was as busy as the crier said, then sneaking up and slaying him would be a simple matter.

The sun was low in the sky; he would not make it to the _souk_ before nightfall. Frowning, he looked south to the Bureau. He was not welcome there; Ibtisam had made that clear. He did not care what they thought, but... listening to the jibes, the taunts, it would be annoying, and he needed a clear head for the investigation. He frowned, debating.

No, it was not worth the irritation. Altair checked his pack at the small of his back. He had rations, the late spring nights were comfortable, and he could steal something if he needed it. He would not return to the Bureau. They would be grateful for it, no doubt. Altair made his way east, looking for an empty sky garden to spend the night.

He started out at dawn the next day. Without the pillows and carpets of the Bureau, the shoulder he bruised from his reckless leap was painfully sore; he had to roll it for several minutes to limber it up. Sighing at the indignation, he hopped down to the street level and made his way to the _souk_ , he still did not know it's name if it had one. Altair paused, thinking. If the target worked there, he did not want to accidentally come across him, Ibtisam was right that preparation made the victor, and so he decided to go to a smaller _souk_ , hoping to listen to gossip and learn more about the death dealer.

As the stands became more clustered, the street narrower, Altair looked up to see boarded planks spread out sporadically over the street, creating shade for the afternoon heat. Already the morning was warm, and it was only late spring. Sconces lined the _souk_ , candles lit to cast off the dark shade as people shouted left and right for prospective buyers.

"Come, come! See what I have to offer!"

"I see you are very wise, which is why you've come to me!"

"I have fresh meet, slaughtered only hours ago!"

"The finest wares to be seen anywhere in the city!"

"I have the best prices anywhere!"

Altair looked instead to the customers, listening to their talk of morning gossip, stories of their days, whines and moans about prices or degenerate family members. None talked about Tamir. He looked to the merchants next, but none of them seemed to sell metal or weapons. The closest he could find was earthenware cups, and when he inquired the merchant disgustedly explained that _they_ were all at _Souk Al-Silaah_. He had almost made it through to the other end of the market when he heard the distinctive vowels of a Crusader. Shocked that one would be so far away from the battlefield Altair ducked into the shadows of an unlit sconce, looking around for Christian armor. He found none, but his eyes surveyed the crowd, intent on finding something.

"Do you understand?"

There, a tall man, pale Christian skin in a Saracen smock and a thick dark beard. He almost could pass, but his accented vowels gave him away.

"Yes, I am to deliver the letter to your merchant friend."

A blacksmith, though a poor one at that. His eyes shifted back and forth, nervous.

"And you know who to see?" the Crusader asked.

"The same man as always."

"Do no think to betray my presence in this city," the man threatened in arrogant tones. "We have many eyes, many ears..."

"And many arms, yes. Good for silencing those who say too much. I know this well; you have my word."

"Good. Then be quick about it. Time is short." The disguised Christian haughtily walked away, leaving the poor blacksmith to look around, trying to find the "many eyes and ears" that would do him harm. Altair clasped his hands in prayer, bending his head and looking instead at the man's feet. He lurked in the shadow, waiting for the nervous man to pass. Lifting his head slightly, Altair began to follow the blacksmith back into the _souk_. It was still early morning, there were few bodies to bump into, and only one guard patrolling. Altair avoided the armed man easily, eyes intent on the blacksmith.

The man paused, looking around, still nervous, and a hand went unconsciously to his pack, patting the letter. Altair paused, waiting, and then with three quick steps was directly behind the man. He lifted the letter carefully and then casually walked off when they exited the _souk_. He heard cries of fear only moments later. Altair dutifully ignored them.

He leaned against a rail over the Barada River, unfolding the letter to read its contents.

_Brother Tamir,_

_The time has come to prepare another shipment. I know that this is no small thing I ask, but be assured, your dedication will be rewarded. We'll need enough for at least a thousand men, so the support of the merchant guild is critical if you wish to deliver on time. I trust you know how best to persuade them, and who to see should you require additional coin. Let us hope that he has not yet spent it all on another of his lavish parties. Contact me when your work in_ Souk Al-Silaah _is done and we'll arrange for its distribution to the men._

_May the Father of Understanding Guide You._

Altair stared at the letter. So many weapons! But for whom? What purpose? If not Saracen, then... Crusader? Was that the reason for the disguised man? Richard did not seem so underhanded, but he knew little of the English king other than he and Salah ad-Din often exchanged gifts with each other. Who was the third man mentioned for coin that threw lavish parties?

The demoted assassin was beginning to see why Al Mualim would want this merchant dead.

He carefully folded the letter and added it to his pack, pulling out his sketched map. Clearly, the _Souk Al-Silaah_ would need be his next destination. He needed to know as much as possible about his target's place of work.

It was mid morning when he arrived. The structure was enormous, richer than the smaller _souk_ he had been to at dawn. The building had high arched roofs with tiny windows to let in sunlight. Inside was dark and gloomy, support beams strung about the high ceilings that held wooden chandeliers, candle wax dripping on unsuspecting heads. Altair stayed well outside, instead circling the massive structure, looking for something he could use. Buying and selling was in full swing now, he could hear the bartering and selling and bargaining even outside the structure. Merchants not rich enough to be in the comforting shade sold their wares outside, begging any onlooker they could find.

Altair saw many merchants groups together, not at any particular stall, milling about and talking. Always they parted looking upset, or worried, or annoyed. Word was traveling through them, and Altair darted a little further forward, trying to head off the rumor that he may hear what it was.

"He's called another meeting," a fat merchant said to two others. Clearly he was delivering the bad news. "Tomorrow at noon."

"What is it this time?" the second man demanded, angry. "Another warning? Another execution?"

"No. He has work for us to do," the fat merchant said.

"Which means," the third complained, "we won't be paid. And we'll work even longer hours to meet his demands."

"He's abandoned the ways of the merchant guild," said the second, clad in blue. "He does as he pleases now."

"He treats us as if we were his servants," the third moaned, running a hand over his beard.

"The guard does nothing to stop him," the first agreed.

"Enough!" the man in blue said, throwing his hands up in frustration. "We must go, if we're late, he'll be angry, and we'll suffer for it. It's all we can do to meet his schedule as it is, we don't need him killing someone to make another point."

"Perhaps one day," the third said in a wistful voice, "someone will have the courage to stand up to him."

"Perhaps," the second said, "but until that day arrives we should do as told. And I, for one, wish to live a little longer."

Altair kept his eyes lowered as he watched the group disperse before detaching himself from the wall he was leaning against and moving further around the _souk_. The man was a butcher of his own people? The other merchants would praise his death, then. Altair wondered why the death dealer had such privilege to do as he pleased, though, going against the guild. Guilds were sacred communities, it was how merchants and blacksmiths and other trades were able to set a fair range of prices, how they worked together to make money that helped them survive. Those that went against guilds were blacklisted and denied any means of support.

Support?

Altair refused to think of the _rafiq's_ words.

After completing a full circuit around the _souk_ , Altair looked up to the sun to see it was early afternoon still. He frowned, thinking.

If the there was to be a meeting tomorrow, then it was likely to assume that all the merchants of the guild would be there, and Tamir would be milling about the stalls, urging them into producing more, absorbed in meeting the astronomical order the unseen buyer had placed. With his mind occupied and the _souk_ filled with merchants instead of guards, it would be an easy kill. Yes, that would be for the best.

Nodding to himself, he stole some bread for a light lunch and started another circuit around the structure. Now he focused on different words. He did not listen for Tamir or merchants or sales, instead he sought to find gossip about the _souk_ itself. Mothers were chasing after children, begging they stay away from the stalls. A merchant was concerned that the guards of the district were so attached to Tamir. Altair listened to that further but there was no important information, only that the man wanted more security by his stall in the northeast corner of the _souk_ , he had even drafted a letter to Abu'l Nuquod, asking the merchant king to right the error. Other merchants were complaining about noise on the rafters above the central courtyard, debating over rats or children. A thief was bragging to a friend that he had evaded a dozen guards because he had friends that slowed them while he made his escape. A woman moaned to an unaffected guard that his job was to protect public safety, not lick Tamir's boot, her precious jar of water had been broken! Two children talked about a hole in one of the _souk_ 's walls and how they often snuck in to steal food. A merchant bitterly moaned to a brother about the ambivalent guards that looked to Tamir instead of others.

All of it helped him.

By the time the evening sun began setting, Altair had a detailed map of the _Souk Al-Silaah_ , all points of entry marked and notes of scaffolding and crates and other means that would assist him in his assignment.

Satisfied that his investigation was complete, he confidently made his way back to the Bureau. Let Ibtisam laugh at him now.

He made his way back to the Bureau; keeping to the streets he had been frequenting all day before eventually climbing a roof to spy the metal dome marking safety for the brotherhood. Looking around, he saw no guards, and so he stayed to the roofs, darting over the wood and clay and stone until he dropped down into the closed in courtyard of the Bureau.

"Altair! Welcome, welcome!" Ibtisam was once again bent over a pot. It's decorations were much more elaborate now, he had spent his time well, it seemed. His bright tone was distracting, Altair now knew the man was two-faced, and he did not like it. He decided to keep it straight to the point.

"I've done what you asked, now give me the marker."

"First things first," the _rafiq_ said, his grin still sly. "Tell me what you know."

Altair had no patience for this. He spoke in quick, clipped tones. "Tamir rules over the _Souk Al-Silaah_. He makes his fortunes selling arms and armor and is supported by many in this endeavor: blacksmiths, traders, financiers. He is the largest death dealer in the land."

Ibtisam leaned back, the _rafiq_ still grinning. "I am unimpressed," he said. "Any novice could learn of these things after only a day."

Altair held in a growl. "His arms are normally meant for Salah ad-Din, but recently he is working on an order for an unknown faction. He is insecure and oversees the work personally. He is also exacting to those under him, he will gladly execute an underling to demonstrate the immediacy of his needs. The merchant's guild is upset with him but cannot go against him. They tire of his disregard for their ways and his abuse of their abilities. Tamir has congregated almost all the blacksmiths and merchants to _Souk Al-Silaah_ where he works daily."

"Better," the rafiq said, at last putting aside his brush. He walked down the length of the counter and pulled out a heavy tome, opening it. "And have you devised a way to rid us of this blight?"

"A meeting is being arranged tomorrow at the _Souk Al-Silaah_ to discuss an important sale. They say it's the largest deal Tamir has ever made, arms for one thousand men to the unknown faction. He'll be distracted with his work, the pressure will be enormous, and that's when I'll strike."

"How?"

Altair pulled out the map he had been sketching, outlining how he planned to gain entry and where Tamir was expected to be managing his wares.

"Your plan seems solid enough. I give you leave to go."

Finally.

"After you've written your report."

"What?" Altair demanded.

Ibtisam smiled, crossing his arms. "Being stripped of your rank in front of the entire order must have been so _embarrassing_ ," he said. "To know that now your word can no longer hold sway on others, that you have to now lower yourself and do as we of such lower standing and actually commit your ambiguous words to parchment. But then, all _novices_ need to write reports, don't they?"

Altair said nothing, refusing to rise to the bait.

The _rafiq_ pulled out a roll of parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle. "I hope you remember how to write," he said in his blithe tones.

Breathing hard through his nose, Altair took the materials and marched out to the courtyard. Insufferable man! He took several moments to control himself before his anger stopped shaking his hands and he could write. The evening light was poor but not terrible, and he would be damned before he asked for a candle so that he could finish. Knowing Ibtisam, he made the report thorough, outlining everything he had done for the last two days down to the last whisper and gossipmonger and bruise he delivered. He made a copy of his map in the dying light.

When he was done, he closed his burning eyes and rubbed them with ink stained fingers. Cracks echoed along his back as he stretched, and his bruised shoulder ached. The air had finally turned cool, and he could see the stars through the latticework.

Going back inside, he saw the _rafiq_ talking with an apprentice. He haunted the doorway, not wanting to interrupt and invite more criticism on himself.

"So, he is back?" the boy said. His voice was young, he couldn't have been more than sixteen.

"No, no, it is better not to ask," the _rafiq_ said, once more focusing on that damn jar. "No matter how _strange_ the method, the mighty Altair _surely_ knows what he is doing."

"Then, when will he complete his task?"

The _rafiq_ looked up, a lazy smile on his face. "That is not for you to know. Unless, of course, you wish to go against my advice and ask him? He is right there, after all."

The boy jumped, turning and seeing the fallen eagle of Masyaf standing at the doorway. "You... you..." the child stuttered. Altair leveled a glare, and the apprentice quickly crumpled, dashing out of the room.

"... I have done as you asked," Altair said, his voice quiet to prevent him from acting out on his emotions.

"Excellent, then allow me to review your work," the _rafiq_ said; and for the next hour Altair had to wait as Ibtisam poured over the report, reading the stolen letter and making a great show of examining the map that he had already seen.

"It will do," he said finally, lazy smile still on his face. "I believe this is what you've asked for."

The dusty tome was still open, and on it was an eagle feather. Ibtisam grabbed it, spinning it in his hand, contemplating it as his smile slowly faded, and he placed it on the counter.

Altair took the marker, but the rafiq quickly snatched his hand, slamming it to the counter and holding it there.

"Let Al Mualim's work be done," he said in utter seriousness.

In this, at least, they could both agree. "I understand," Altair replied.

The grip was loosed, the grin was back, and the _rafiq_ walked back to his stool. "You may rest here until you are ready."

Altair nodded. "Where would you have me?" he asked.

"Oh, if I had my way I'd have you out of my city after all my apprentices spat on you and kicked you. But alas, you are still a brother, and _I_ at least know what that means, unlike others in this room. And so, the courtyard will be fine. All our other rooms are filled, you understand."

There was nothing left to say after that, Altair went back to the closed in courtyard and made the best use of the pillows he could. Sleep was light as the apprentices and journeymen slowly made their way in for the night, all stopping to stare at the demoted assassin in person; whispering amongst themselves. He ignored it all.

He slept through the dawn, waking mid morning. His shoulder no longer bothered him, and he said nothing, climbing out the Bureau without so much as a second glance. He knew the _rafiq_ was watching him go.

He reached the _souk_ quickly, sticking to the rooftops. He spent an hour canvassing the area, making certain his plan was sound and his route were secure. The sun at its zenith, at last satisfied, Altair slowly dropped down to the inner courtyard of the _souk_. The small square was packed with people, merchants milling about, traders running back and forth, guards in red only glancing at the crowds. Tables were covered with weaponry, smiths could be heard hammering in the shade of the building, and couriers were dashing about with messages or deliveries. The center of the square lowered to a small fountain, many men taking their _hijab_ and hats and veils and soaking them in it before adorning their faces with it to stave off the noon heat. He kept his head down, his hood hiding his features, and slowly walked about the busy merchants, waiting for his target to arrive.

He did not have to wait long.

"Your men have failed to fill the order, which means I have failed my client."

"We need more time!"

Altair turned to see a man in red march into the courtyard, followed by a man in worker's whites. The man in red silks was clearly a man of wealth, his mustache neatly trimmed and his _taqiyah_ hat finely made. The cloth under his hat was a pure white, fluttering out behind his head as he made his way to the down the steps to the fountain. This was Tamir, the man Altair was about to murder.

"This is the excuse of a lazy or incompetent man. Which are you?" the target demanded.

"Neither." The merchant shook his head, upset with the accusation.

"What I see says otherwise." Abruptly Tamir turned around, making the merchant come up short to prevent running into him. "Now, tell me: what do you intend to do to solve this problem of ours? These weapons are needed _now_."

The merchant shook his head again, trying to be reasonable but still stand up for himself. "I see no solution. The men work day and night, but your 'client,' " he held his hands up to indicate his opinion of the matter, "requires so much! And the destination, it is a difficult route!"

"Were it that you could produce weapons with the same skill as you produce excuses!" Tamir said, stepping into the merchant's personal space.

"I have done all I can," the merchant said, eyes level and clear.

"It is not enough," Tamir growled.

"Then perhaps you ask too much," the merchant said, throwing up his hands and walking away.

"Too much?" Tamir asked, his voice almost a whisper. He strode after the man, around the fountain. "I gave you _everything_. Without me, you would still be charming serpents for coin." He grabbed the man, spinning him around to make him look at Tamir, gripping his collar. "All I ask in return was that you fill the orders I bring you. And you say I ask too much?" Furious, his pale face burning with anger, Tamir spat in the man's face. "You dare disrespect me?"

"Please, Tamir, I meant no insult," the merchant said, his voice placating even as he moved to wipe his soiled beard.

"Then you should have kept your mouth shut!" Tamir pulled out a knife and slashed at the merchant. Altair remembered a knife in his own gut most recently, and his eyes hardened.

"No, stop!" the merchant said, clutching as his side.

"Stop? Hah! I'm just getting started!" With quick, unpracticed motions Tamir slashed the knife back and forth, gouging rips into the merchant's arm and side as the man tried to slink away from the assault. Blood splattered everywhere, and people backed away, gasping and the violence that had so suddenly descended on them. "You came into _my souk_ , stood before _my_ men, and dared to insult _me_?" Tamir took the time to change to a reverse grip of the knife, and he plunged the weapon into the back of the beaten merchant. And he did it again. And again. "You! Must! Learn! Your! Place!"

Rage spent, Tamir straightened and took a moment to look at the murder he had committed before kicking the body into the central fountain. One of his guards moved to remove the body, but Tamir held him back.

"No, leave the body." He turned to the gaping crowd. "Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Think twice before you tell me something cannot be done. Get back to work!"

And, as if nothing happened, he calmly marched over to a stall and started belittling the man there.

Altair had seen more than enough. It was time to strike.

Invisible in the crowd, he circled his way around to the death dealer. He waited until Tamir's personal guard turned away, dealing with a beggar woman whining for coin. The hidden blade thrust up, between the ribs and deep into Tamir's organs. It was a precision strike, there would be very little blood. The target straightened, shocked, and as he fell limp Altair gently lowered him to the ground.

"Be at peace," he said softly.

"You'll pay for this," Tamir grunted, his eyes wide. A glance at the white hood and red sash drew recognition on his face. "You and all your kind."

Death was a heavy affair. Altair knew it well; even now there were some deaths that had yet to let go of him. He thought of Kadar, and knew it would be a while yet before he would be free of their burdens. It was because of this knowledge that he respected it, and because of that he paid no heed to the insult Tamir had laid upon him. Instead, he offered the man final words. It would not be solace, or absolution, or even kindness. All it was, all it could be, was closure.

"It seems you're the one who pays now, my friend," he said softly. "You'll not profit from suffering any longer."

Tamir coughed at first, before it turned into a pained laugh. "You think me some petty death dealer, suckling at the breast of war?" He snorted, blood seeping out of his mouth. "A strange target, don't you think? Why me, when so many others do the same?"

"You believe yourself different, then?" Altair asked.

"Oh but I am, for I serve a far nobler cause than mere profit." Tamir smiled, pride swelling in his face as color drained from it. "Just like my brothers."

"Brothers?" What was this?

"Ah, but he thinks I act alone," he muttered, coughing again. He gazed up at Altair with a lazy, haughty smile. "I am but a piece, a man with a part to play... You'll come to know the others soon enough... they won't take kindly to what you've done...!"

Others? There were others? Altair would think on it later, time was running out. To Tamir he offered bravado:

"Good," he said simply, "I look forward to ending their lives as well."

"Such pride," Tamir whispered, his head lolling back. "It will destroy you, child..."

Altair would not think on how the dying had offered words to him, instead of the other way around. He did not think about the brothers that the man spoke of. He did not think about the threat inherent of him paying for his murder. He did not think of any of these things as he took his feather and wiped it across Tamir's bloody chin, proof that the deed had been done.

A woman screamed, followed quickly by several others. The personal guard in red let go of the beggar woman and started running across the courtyard, shoving people away and drawing his sword at the same time Saracen guards started to shove their way in, and Altair had no time left to see how the crowd had reacted to his public assassination.

He shoved his way through a throng of people into the _souk_ , the normally bustling thoroughfare nearly empty of people, as they had gone to see what the screaming was about. Altair ducked through the streets and alleys of the marketplace, running at full speed as he heard the shouts of the guards after him. When the bright sunlight hit him he ducked his head to prevent his pupils from contracting too much, looking at feet and torsos before his eyes could adjust to the sudden saturation of light. He shoved one person aside and hopped up a crate, scrambling up a wall. One glance back showed that the guards were hot on his tail, clamoring to follow him. His skill made him the better climber, and he had cleared three rooftops before the first guard, the personal guard, managed to crest the building.

Altair saw a flock of pigeons fly away and he boldly took a leap from the roof, dropping three stories and landing softly into a pile of hay. He held his breath and waited, heart pounding in his veins and in his ears. Sweat was seeping out of every pour. The combination of the noon heat and the adrenaline and the pursuit had soaked him. He exhaled slowly, his breath hot on his hands, before taking a slow deep breath.

The guards finally caught up to him, he could hear them climbing and crashing down, shouting curses and cries of retribution. Their voices receded, but Altair lingered a while longer. As his breathing slowly evened he finally became aware of the city alarm, someone had climbed a watchtower and was banging the warning bell over and over. He would wait.

Tamir spoke of others. Brothers, he called him. And said soon Altair would come to know them well. Stranger still, he seemed to know of the assassins, recognized his hood and sash. How did he know? He would have to speak to the Master, report this oddity to him immediately...

" _What was your first thought after that? Did you go to the rafiq?"_

No. He would not go immediately. He was still demoted, still a novice, and he refused to give Ibtisam any reason to belittle him further.

He waited until his breath was perfectly calm and the sweat dry before he climbed out of the hay. The streets were filled with guards and drawn swords, the alarms were still ringing, but it meant nothing to Altair. Grabbing a fistful of hay he rubbed it across his gauntlets, letting it absorb the blood before cleaning his blade with his red sash. He cupped his hands together in prayer, bent his head down, and calmly merged with a crowd of people walking down the street, listening to them wonder what all the fuss was about.

It took two hours to return to the Bureau, he took a circuitous route deliberately in case he had a tail. He was remiss if he didn't admit, however, that he got lost in the unfamiliar streets. It was only for a few moments, however, and by late afternoon he was climbing a ladder and dropping into a closed in courtyard.

"Word has reached me of your victory, Altair!" Ibtisam said, his smile once more wide and welcoming. "You have my gratitude and my respect." And, for once, the man seemed sincere.

"...Thank you."

"It is a shame that the other assassins continue to hold you in such poor regard," the _rafiq_ continued, pulling out the heavy book and opening it. Altair pulled out his bloody feather.

" _Rafiq_ , I do not care what the others think of me." He didn't, their thoughts meant nothing to him. He stared at Ibtisam. Nothing at all...

"As you wish, Altair," he said easily, shrugging off the demoted assassin's look. His businesslike tone took over as he made marks in the book to keep record of the work. "You should bring news of your victory to Al Mualim. I'm certain he has more work for you to do."

And no doubt be rid of the demoted assassin that much sooner. Altair nodded, taking his lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have the first assassination - all in one chapter! As you can imagine, this is absolutely not going to happen again, but Tamir's assassination is the easiest of the game (as can be expected for the first), with so many eavesdroppings and pickpockets.
> 
> The Rafiq for Damascus doesn't (that we know of) have a name, and so we dug through some Muslim name websites and decided on Ibtisam, which means smiling, as it seemed appropriate for his character. The informants, when they start showing up, will get names, too, fitting for their roles in honor of the fact that the game has a similar doctrine. Also in respect to the game, we're using the game dialogue as much as possible (which in part terrifies us because we don't want to plagiarize) with notable expansions. This is most noticeable with the conversations with the Rafiq Ibtisam (and the others, too) and we hope that it reads well.
> 
> Not much on Altair's scale of badass-ery, but don't worry, the visceral awesomeness will creep up soon. As always, let us know what you think!
> 
> Next chapter: Desmond freaks out over murder.


	5. History of Slaughter

"Out of the machine, Mr. Miles."

Suddenly the white fog was there and gone in the blink of an eye, and then the visor was removing itself. Desmond shot up into a sitting position, his head swimming in disorientation. He rubbed his face, his cheeks, his neck; he could feel dry sweat all along his temples. He breathed deeply. His hands were shaking. Breathe. Breathe. There was no blood on his hands. None. Clean. Dry.

Shakily, he threw a glance at the grizzled old man in a lab coat and threw out, "What's the matter, doc?"

"Miss Stillman," Warren growled, "is once again insisting I let you rest."

And with a great huff and what Desmond would have laid money on as a grunt, the doc turned on his heel and stalked out of the enormous white room, an angry slouch in his shoulders and a distinctive stomp in his step.

"So," Desmond drawled once the door to freedom had closed with the doc's departure, "feel like telling me who put the stick up his ass?"

Lucy took a seat in a white upholstered chair, one of two in the room. She was still looking at her tablet, but she glanced up to answer. "We have a deadline: One week. Well, six days, now."

"Deadline?"

She looked away. "I can't talk about it."

Wasn't she supposed to be nice? Wasn't she supposed to be sympathetic? But she was still _with_ Abstergo, the god-complex freak Warren and therefore still a "bad guy."

" _They won't take kindly to what you've done..._ "

Something inside of Desmond snapped.

"... Man, put yourself in my shoes," he growled, his feet starting to pace, "I'm being held hostage by a group of scientists - at least I think you're scientists - and forced to spend all day in some crazy ass machine. You won't tell me what you're looking for or why you want it, but I'm supposed to be thanking you for keeping me alive! This is so _fucked_!"

Lucy looked at him, her eyes carefully blank.

Desmond got defensive. "Sorry, but it is!"

She put the tablet down on the arm of the chair and leaned back, suddenly looking tired. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Hm, let's see," Desmond drawled, "I don't know, maybe give me some _answers_?"

She sighed. "I can't. And it's better this way." She picked up her tablet. "Safer."

That only irritated him further. "Safer for _who_?" he demanded.

She leveled a calm look at him. "Both of us."

Desmond growled, running his hands through his hair, and all but fell into the second chair, collapsing into its almost-soft depths. He stared at his hands again, all ten fingers, no blood, no dying man in his arms glaring at him. "I... I killed him," he whispered. Hands turned into fists and he pressed them into his eyes. "It wasn't me, it was that fucking _ancestor_ , but it was _me_... I just..." They were shaking; he couldn't understand why there wasn't blood on them. "I still feel the thrust... I, _he_... he pierced the lung. That guy was choking on his own blood and..." His entire body shivered, the cold temperature of the room coursing threw him. "And he took it so seriously..." he muttered, shoving his elbows onto his knees, eyes looking at nothing. "That's worse than when he doesn't care, because he _gets_ it, _got_ it, whatever. He knew it but he still _did_ it..."

How? How could anybody understand what death was, what it took to kill someone, and still do it? Desmond knew and the idea of killing people petrified him, he didn't want that kind of responsibility on his shoulders, and he didn't want to try and justify it was for the "greater good," for "peace in all things." How did one equate to the other? And how the hell could his ancestor believe it so completely? How could anybody believe that the murder of one person justified peace on a grand scale, how could anyone make that kind of judgment?

He shuddered.

It felt like hours later when he was finally able to pull himself together. The sun was much lower in the sky, but Lucy was still in her chair, working.

He... He'd been an ass earlier. The shock of the memory and the stress of the confinement, his emotions had gotten the better of him and he'd taken it all out on her, _her_ , the one hope he had of getting out of here. Desmond internally groaned at his idiocy, and resolved to fix it. That she was still here had to mean something, right?

He re-crossed his legs and rubbed the back of his neck, taking a deep breath.

"Hey, you know what?" he asked, "I got a question I think you can actually answer." Desmond mentally winced at the sarcasm. He'd wanted to sound good humored.

"What's up?" she asked, looking up from her tablet. Desmond was surprised that she didn't look guarded or wary after his outburst.

"Why is it that sometimes the guys in there? Talk like they're from the future."

" 'The future?' " she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Great job at being clear, Desmond. He pinched his brow. "Yeah, I mean the present. Now, today... whatever." God, he sounded like an idiot.

"You've probably noticed that English his become the official language of the Holy Land," Lucy offered, her face suddenly understanding.

"Yeah, I was gonna say..."

Lucy put down her tablet on the arm of the chair. "The Animus is translating speech it deems vital into more modern English, so expect a few anachronisms. I _could_ probably make it more authentic but... You ever read Chaucer?"

Like he had a standard, public education. "Who?" he asked, feeling the fool.

"... Yeah. Definitely not for you." She picked up her tablet again, a smirk on her lips, and Desmond somehow new he was being teased.

Shortly after this a guard arrived with dinner. Lucy took a ham and cheese sandwich and Desmond was left with dry tuna and no mayo. He made a face at the lack of taste, and the blond smirked again, re-crossing her legs before wiping her hands on a napkin.

"Can you tell me more about Abstergo?" Desmond asked, forcing himself to eat. "And what goes on here? Beyond the whole keeping-me-prisoner thing."

"Abstergo is one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world. Their primary focus is antidepressants. There's some information on the computer over there," she added, gesturing vaguely to the Animus. Desmond looked at it hesitantly.

"But you already said this isn't about testing a drug. So what's the deal?"

"I don't like where this is going," Lucy said in a sudden flat voice, throwing her eyes up to glance at him before once more focusing on her tablet.

"So it's safe to assume the Animus is _not_ a part of their public face," Desmond said, taking one last bite before putting a chin into his palm.

"What, you haven't seen the commercials?" Lucy asked, a smile on her face.

"Oh, my god," Desmond said, grinning right back, "she has a sense of humor." He wiped his hands and the guard took the trays and plates away, disappearing to through the door.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," she said once the man was gone. "I've got a lot of work to do." Something in her voice was different, not quite strained, but... meaningful. "Like I said, if you want to know more about the company, take a look at the computer." A ghost of a smile crossed her face, a microexpression he could read. "The telecommunication stuff is _particularly_ interesting."

...

Victory! Desmond had to very quickly cover his wide grin with a hand, rubbing his chin and scratching his stubble. An ally, he had an ally! No maybe, no finagling, an honest to god ally! He waited a beat before getting up and casually walking over to the computer. He eyed it wearily, knowing it was hooked up to the Animus. "So, I won't screw this thing up if I browse around?"

Lucy was smirking again. "So long as you don't click on the Animus icon, I imagine you'll be just fine," she answered.

Turning off the screensaver, he took a moment to eye the desktop, looking for anything useful. The Animus icon he steadfastly avoided, but opening up an applications window he started to explore. Text editor, spreadsheet program, email, folders on "P.O.E." that were password protected, ah, a satellite icon. That probably meant telecommunications. Double clicking, he was taken to a website that spewed techno babble at him. There was a launch coming up, Desmond was able to get that, and the whole company was in a mad dash to get everything ready, using P.O.E., whatever they were, and looking for more of them. Desmond didn't know what P.O.E. stood for, but he felt satisfaction in knowing _what_ Abstergo was looking for. Similarly, he knew what to keep an eye out for when he was in the Animus. It was a _huge_ help, and when he glanced over at Lucy, blithely studying her tablet he could only smirk and silently thank her.

He got as far as he could without the passwords, and he ended off with clicking on the email. He wasn't a computer whiz by any stretch of the imagination, but he did know a thing or two about TCP/IP. It didn't take long to learn that Abstergo computers ran on a closed LAN, there was no connection to the outside. Great, just great.

The emails themselves looked like they were purged every month, there was nothing before September first, and only three in the inbox. He threw a glance over at Lucy, a little guilty that he was reading her personal mail, but figured she probably wanted him to have free reign. He clicked on the one that looked the least harmful, the one from Warren Vidic (a last name! Finally!) about a pen. Apparently the old fart kept dropping his pen (which doubled as an access-key? That would be useful, he knew a thing or two about pickpocketing...). Another email was Lucy asking about the threat Vidic had made yesterday about Leila. It was obvious from the response that no questions were to be asked.

The last email was much longer. It had attached some kind of privacy agreement on it, and Desmond had to read it twice before the legal double talk made sense.

_"You acknowledge and agree that ABSTERGO has developed such Confidential Information by the investment of significant time, effort and expense, and that such Confidential Information provides ABSTERGO with a significant competitive advantage in its business. You acknowledge and agree that breach of this Agreement by You will therefore result in irreparable harm to ABSTERGO, the extent of which would be difficult to ascertain, and in any event money damages will be inadequate as a remedy in the event of such a breach. Accordingly, You agree that in the event of a breach of this Agreement by You, ABSTERGO shall be entitled to injunctive, or any other equitable relief as the court deems appropriate, in addition to any other remedies which it may have available."_

"Whoa," he muttered, once he finally wrapped his head around the legalese. Money damages weren't adequate? Injunctive or equitable relief _in addition_ to other remedies? Desmond was no idiot; he could read between the lines. If someone violated the privacy policy, the company basically could do _anything_ it wanted as restitution. That meant... if they caught Lucy helping him...

He turned to look at the blond, tapping away at her tablet before pushing her hands over her head in a long overdue stretch. She was taking a huge risk.

He felt grateful.

Finished with her stretch, Lucy reluctantly pulled herself out of her chair. "Aren't you tired?" she asked. She threw a look at the computer, and Desmond once again understood what she meant.

"Yeah," he said, making a show of rubbing his eyes. "I'm getting ready to turn in. I'm sure my cell will be happy to take me."

"Always room at the inn, right?" she said, picking up her tablet and walking over to the computer, Desmond stepping aside and giving her access. She deftly closed all programs and wiped the cache memory before powering down. The blond turned and looked at him, her face soft even in the harsh florescent light.

The pair nodded, and Desmond walked around the Animus to his room, Lucy turning and moving to the exit.

_the TRUTH need tell the truth must pass it on to the next subject it's all in the ANIMUS in the memory in the blood in the past I've seen it all nothing is true but this is true and they need to know so that they don't destroy everything it's all a lie twisted by history twisted by them twisted by perception only the blood knows the truth and I have to pass it on if it's in the blood then I'll use the blood it's only fair they drained my soul so I'll drain my body and pass on the truth the symbols the double fingerprint that isn't a fingerprint it's in their plans..._

"Let's go Mr. Miles, time's wasting."

He groaned, rolling over in his bed before admitting defeat. Sighing, he sat up and pulled his sweatshirt back over his head. The showers at night were one thing, but he was really beginning to feel uncomfortable about wearing the same clothes. Rubbing his eyes, he still felt weird. Did he have a dream...? He couldn't remember.

Desmond got up slowly and stumbled to the tiny bathroom, utilizing facilities and taking his damn sweet time doing it just to piss of Dr. Dickhead. Finally finished, he felt slightly more awake and wandered into the spacious main room. His eyes automatically looked around for a certain hot blond.

"Where's Lucy?" he asked.

"Oh, don't worry," Vi _dick_ said, still smarmy, still smoothly confident. Desmond wanted to punch him. "She'll be with us soon."

Pouting, Desmond stared at the old fart. He couldn't keep relying on Lucy, she was risking enough as it was doing what she could. Maybe he could weasel some information out of the lab coat? Even if he got nothing out of it, at least it would look like he wasn't choosy about whom he would dig info out of. And maybe he could piss the guy off, just for kicks.

"So why you doin' all this, doc? What are you hoping to accomplish?" When it doubt, be direct.

"You turn the television on, lately? Read the newspaper?"

Desmond made a great show of looking around his spacious prison. "Never cared much for that stuff," he drawled, "too much to do here, you know?"

Vidic walked up to his desk, talking as he went. "Then, let me spell it out for you: the world's a mess! It's pathetic really. You've seen it firsthand yourself. A thousand years between you and your ancestor, and society remains just as barbaric, just as stupid." He waved with his arm to make a point, a vague gesture of distaste.

"And your point is...?" Desmond already knew the world was screwed up; that assassins wanted to make a world a better place by killing people was proof enough of that.

"Order, Mr. Miles. The world needs order. That is what we're working towards, and that is what you're helping us to achieve."

Right, kidnap people, strap them to a machine, make them relive memories of ancient ancestors, it all _naturally_ lead to order. Desmond laughed. "You expect me to believe that you're building a better tomorrow?"

"That's exactly what we're doing!" Vidic exclaimed, using both hands to gesture in what Desmond would almost name as excitement. "The human race calls out for direction. They want to know why they're here, what they're meant to do; well, we're going to tell them. And once they understand how to live their lives, everything will be better."

"... Better how?" Desmond almost didn't want to hear the answer.

"An end to all conflicts, large and small," the old man answered. Then he gave a superior smirk. "Isn't that what you assassins strive for? 'Peace in all things?' " He sat down at his desk.

That... that was just perverted. All to quickly Desmond saw his father, his lecture about "peace in all things" and that "everything was permitted" and the argument before he left. All the words and hateful things they had thrown at each other, the bitterness and now the regret, and still Desmond clung to what he had said:

"I told you, I'm _not_ an assassin."

"Right, right," Vidic said, looking at his computer, dismissive.

The memories hurt too much. Desmond went back to fact finding. "I still don't see where I fit into things," he said, his voice sullen.

"In time, Mr. Miles. In time, you'll understand." Vidic looked up from his computer to level a look at his prisoner, his grizzled face calculating. Then he smiled again. "Or you won't. I don't care either way, as long as you show us where it is."

"Where _what_ is?" The P.O.E. thing that he saw on the computer? What was it anyway?

"Sorry I'm late. Ready to go?"

Desmond spun around to see Lucy coming in with a breakfast tray. God, her timing sucked. He threw a look back at Vidic and saw he was diligently ignoring him and browsing his computer. Hm, he was clearly higher up on the food chain that Lucy, did his computer have more on it? He'd need the pen key... But with War _den_ sitting so tightly in his chair that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Sighing, Desmond walked away from the old fart and grabbed the egg sandwich, chewing it viciously. Lucy eyed him, eyed Vidic, and nodded before going to the computer and turning it on. Desmond went threw his sandwich quickly and gulped his milk. "What a dinky breakfast," he muttered.

"Stop wasting time and get on the Animus!"

Desmond did not bother to hide his spiteful glare as he sat on the curved table, laying his head down. The visor slid into his view and he cold feel the table start to warm up underneath him. He stared at the stylized triangle as Lucy booted up the system. He studied the screen, wondering if there was something in it that might be use - he looked up to the corner of the visor, and the small string of text: _Welcome, Subject 17_.

He... He was number 17? There had been sixteen other subjects then, either still locked away in the complex somewhere or else dead and buried. The thought made him shiver. As the white fog filled his vision and he realized he was in the avatar of his ancestor, he promised himself that he would be more diligent. If they were looking of this P.O.E. thing, he'd watch the memories, same as them, and he was determined to figure out what it was and where it was before them. Then he would have information and he could lord it up over them and have something to negotiate with. He could do this.

He took a deep breath, and the white fog slowly dissipated, bright sun splashing over his head, the ground becoming uneven and sloped, dissonant voices filling the air and a mountain rising above him.

He was in Masyaf.

_"Now trigger the memory, Mr. Miles. We don't have all day."_

Irritated with the old man and his lack of answers, he started stomping around, looking for something that might trigger nostalgia or a memory. The problem was that _all of freakin' Masyaf_ was a walking pit of nostalgia. His ancestor grew up here; there were hundreds of memories flitting about the place. Desmond could almost see afterimages of baby-ancestor running around the town with baby-Malik and infant-Kadar, hunting for flags to get to know the area. It was disturbing and hard to follow and more than a little confusing.

He was halfway to the market when he stopped in mid-step.

"What an idiot," he muttered. "I've been going about this all wrong."

Leaning against a well, he crossed is arms and closed his eyes, picking through his memories of the Damascus assassination. His ancestor wasn't the kind of guy that wandered aimlessly, like he was and had been doing. The assassin marched off to whatever his objective was. With that in mind, Desmond tried to remember what that smarmy Bureau head had said. Something about more work to do...?

"Right. The old man it is," he said, looking around for a path that went uphill.

When he made it into the citadel he knew he was going in the right direction. His nostalgia had much older afterimages. Now, where was the old man? He didn't really spend his whole life in the library, did he?

Walking into the fortress and through the line of blank staring constructs, Desmond kn _ew that he had come at a good time and that the Master would be pleased._

* * *

Altair stood before Al Mualim, still and at attention, as would be expected. He had just finished his first assassination since his demotion and to even the strictest set of eyes, he'd upheld every aspect of the Creed. He hoped this meant he'd be back to a senior assassin, but Altair doubted it. Still, he had come at a good time and the Master would no doubt be pleased.

"You've done well, Altair," the Teacher said, sitting at the table with scrolls and parchments. "And I am confident that this is but the first of many successes."

Good. He had pleased Al Mualim as he'd intended. It was time to move on to the next mission.

But something about Tamir's words still nagged at Altair. Even after the ride back to Masyaf. Something was... off. Perhaps the Master would know.

"Tamir spoke as if he knew you well. He implied my work had a larger meaning."

"Significance comes not from a single act, but the context within which it is performed, the consequences born of it."

This, Altair hid a grin for. _This_ was his Master, the distant and strict taskmaster. Al Mualim had a lesson for him, one that Altair, as always, must figure out for himself. This was how Al Mualim had always been. A man one worked hard to get even the slightest of praise from. This was _not_ the person who had coldly stabbed him in the side, be it an illusion or not. This was yet more proof to put that strange memory aside, no matter how it ate at him.

Thus, if significance was only seen through the proper context, he needed the proper context.

"Then is there more I need to know?" he asked.

"Altair, you're greatest failure was born of knowing too much," the teacher said patiently from his seat. "If I choose to withhold information, it is only to ensure you do not make the same mistake a second time."

"I see." The lesson had apparently not been learned. Altair would have to prove himself again with the next name on the list. Once all nine were done, then he hoped to see what lesson it was that he had needed so badly as to demote him.

"No you _don't_ ," Al Mualim replied coolly, standing swiftly, "And it will remain this way until you've learned your lesson!" There was a quiet sigh as the Master regained control of himself. Altair was surprised to still see the deep anger that had just flared. He'd have thought the time he'd spent away on his mission with Tamir would have cooled the burning rage. It had not. Al Mualim had merely tamed it.

The teacher turned to the small pigeon coop. "Still, you have preformed competently, and as such, I restore a rank and will return a piece of your equipment." It seemed the Master did not even want to grant Altair that. Had he really fallen so far? And Altair still wondered _what_ he had done to anger Al Mualim so.

"Go now to Acre. There is a man who requires your attention. The bureau leader can tell you more about what needs to be done."

It was a clear dismissal as Al Mualim returned to his seat and went over the sheets before him. Altair said nothing, and picked up his short sword, good against agile enemies and for swift work. He pulled off his harness and attached the sheath, before putting on the harness again and putting the blade away. The weight of it was familiar, and he stretched forward, ensuring the harness did not catch awkwardly on his clothes before turnin _g in anticipation of his next kill._

* * *

Desmond gasped, slightly startled and stumbled forwards. He most certainly was _not_ anticipating a kill! With a blink he realized he was still in the library. The old man was gone, the table empty, the stool pushed aside. Desmond wondered if he would _ever_ get used to that. He reached up over his shoulder to finger the tip of the curved blade. It reminded him vaguely of those scimitars he would see in movies, but shorter and less curved. Walking down the stairs he practiced drawing and sheathing it; it wasn't intuitive like he thought it would be, and he was halfway out the fortress before he figured out how to lift his arm, bend his back, and slide the blade into its sheath with something resembling ease.

"Geez, these guys must have been contortionists," he muttered. He was still practicing as he made his way down the mountain. As he walked, Desmond realized he was starting to recognize the layout of the town. There was a small watch tower at the upper reaches of the village, down that street was a shortcut to the market, that way lead to the stage where what's-his-name had been preaching to anyone who would listen.

Pausing, he looked around. That was the tanners, and that was the blacksmith, and... yep, that was where the basket weaver was. Was that a good or bad sign that he knew the place so well? Would he know the other cities like he knew this one?

Somehow he knew he wouldn't.

But could he use it?

He grabbed t _he brown mare, docile and forgettable, good cover for the Christian_ s, and mounted it. The saddle was still uncomfortable, but he found an easy gate and made his way through the narrow mountain passes. Desmond pulled out his foggy map (and still felt stupid for saying "Map: Kingdom") and tried to study it. It didn't help in the slightest, and so he continued to ride in what his maps said as south and crossed his fingers for Lucy's markers. He found one and followed it, passing watchtowers and hearing distinctly English mutterings as he rode through villages.

"Hey, Lucy?" he asked, looking up to the sky. "Why do all the English guys sound like they're that girl in 'My Fair Lady'?"

_"You've seen 'My Fair Lady'?"_

"Don't ask."

"... _You're heading to the port city of Acre, it was taken by the Crusaders during the Third Crusade. Once can assume that the area had a heavier Crusader presence. As for the lower-class cockney accent, soldiers for the Crusades were drafted by king's orders; serfs and the like were farmed out to the soldiers and anything with rank was filled up with nobility. I'm told you can hear the difference in the French and the German, too, but if you don't know the languages you might not pick up on it."_

Like history ever meant much to him.

Desmond saw water, eventually, and a series of docks. Assuming this meant "ocean," he hoped he was near the "port" city of Acre, silently thanking Lucy for the hint. There was a swell of cockney English, French that he knew about every other word of, and German, which was completely foreign to him. But at least he recognized the languages, unlike Arabic he heard elsewhere that was just noise in his ears. He felt a little more familiar with the languages, even if it felt alien it was less alien that with the Saracens. He wondered idly if that was a disrespect to his ancestor, and decided he didn't care.

The trail he was on eventually left the port, but he was still parallel to the coast insofar as he could tell, and felt some measure of confidence he was going (vaguely) in the right direction. The mountains surrounded him again; climbing so high he almost couldn't see the sky. He passed some Crusaders guarding something but steadfastly ignored it in favor of not starting a fight. He looked down at his nine fingers, and shuddered, still remembering that death dealer Tamir as he bled out in his, Desmond's, _that guy's_ arms. He didn't ever want to get used to it.

On the trail, standing in the middle of nowhere, guarding a chest, stood a guard in chain mail, white smock with a red cross, and a red helmet. Desmond pulled his horse to a stop well away and looked; he felt he should know what the getup signified, but was clueless.

"Hey, Lucy?" he asked again. "What's that guy's affiliation? I mean, I know he's a Crusader, but..."

_"That would be a Templar, Mr. Miles. Feel like killing him?"_

_"There were quite a few different sects of Knights in the Crusades. Templars have white crosses, Hospitalier had black crosses, etc. You should be able to determine which is which after a while."_

"Great," Desmond muttered. He remembered all too well what happened _last_ time some German Templar had gotten a hold of him. Despite Vi _dick_ 's proclamations he had no intention of doing any murder while he was himself in this construct. Witnessing his ancestor poking people was more than enough, thank you. Frowning, he looked around for some kind of pass or ridge he could use to bypass the guy. Nothing.

Sighing, he dug his heels into his horse and jumped right into a gallop. He was certain he heard French, and knew the Templar had gone for his sword and was chasing him. Desmond kept up his gallop, however, eating up territory and blowing by a throng of soldiers, he rode too fast to identify them, and a watchtower. They, too, drew their swords.

"Christ," he cursed. "How far to I have to run before they stop chasing me?"

He rode up a ridge and then back down a smaller, less traveled path before he yanked hard on the reins, his horse skidding to a halt. Panting, he looked up the hill. He couldn't hear anything, and so he waited. After ten minutes of nobody cresting the hill, he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief, rubbing his forehead. He was surprised that there wasn't any sweat, and remembered that he was in a construct. He probably didn't do anything, even with the fixed sun at its hottest position.

Desmond rode at a more sedate pace, past a pair of archery towers and had their bows trained on him but never fired. He could hear more Crusader languages, the patrols were distinctly not Saracen, and he suddenly found himself staring at a long wall of wooden steaks, small tents lined both sides, and there was a giant hole in the ground, the bottom filled with... bodies.

"Whoa..."

He looked up to the sky.

"What... what happened here?"

Lucy answered. _"The Siege of Acre. This might take a little background. Saladin had a decisive victory in the Battle of Hattin in 1187, and he took many cities after that, including Jerusalem. The Europeans didn't like that the Holy City wasn't under Christian control, and they started marshaling forces for another Crusade. At the time, Guy of Lusignan, who was the king of Jerusalem, was captured. After his release, he wanted to take Jerusalem back and so he went to one of the last Crusader ports in the area: Tyre. They wouldn't let him in, and so he took his forces and laid siege to Acre, the city you're going to. It turned into a flashpoint for the Third Crusade to begin."_

"Boring," Desmond muttered, only half listening to the narration as he stared at all the corpses.

_"Saladin heard about the siege and went to stop it. Guy and the Crusaders had the Saracens in the city on one side and Saladin on the other. The battle was pretty complicated, but it ended with Saladin routing Guy and the Crusaders when they dispersed to loot and plunder the city, and poor coordination lead to the Saracens in Acre to escape and join Saladin. The Crusaders technically won, but they suffered heavy losses. That was how the siege started. For the next year-and-a-season, Saracen and Crusader galleys broke or snuck through the blockade to get food to the people inside, and there was a lot of switching of possession over the port. The city, as you can imagine, was a mess in the interim."_

Desmond looked up to the sky. "So, let me get this straight. Saladin was laying siege to the Crusaders who were laying siege to Acre? World War II Germany much?"

He thought he heard Lucy giggle. _"Ultimately, more forces arrived for the Crusaders - including Richard, and Saladin had lost his chance. Acre tried to surrender, but the Crusaders rejected their offer, and so they pleaded with Saladin before offering surrender again. This time Richard took it, and Saladin conceded it. I know that during the finalization of the surrender there was a squabble over prisoner exchange, and Richard decapitated something like twenty-seven hundred prisoners, and Saladin killed his Crusader prisoners, too."_

Desmond looked at the mass grave. For a long, long time.

"What... what happened after?"

_"The Crusaders marched south, the coast to one side and Saladin on the other."_

_"And none of this is getting us to the next memory. Hurry up, Mr. Miles!"_

Desmond rolled his eyes, casting one last look at the Crusader camp, and the grave, and the stakes. The lay of the land started to make sense, the archery towers, the dirt paths, the overwhelming presence of chain mail and shields and swords sticking out of the ground. And the blood. Shuddering, Desmond urged his horse forward and under a stone archway. He pinched his eyes closed, rubbing them and holding his breath, something to get his brain working again.

Wind picked up, and when he looked up he saw the battered walls of the city. If it was possible, there were even _more_ bodies littering the ground, covered in burlap. Reining up, Desmond dismounted and just studied the gates. He saw a priest being harassed by some guards, but he knew from Damascus that that wasn't how his ancestor would sneak into a city. Besides, with all the patrols rolling around he knew that he would be completely overtaken, and Desmond was much too nauseous to try and fight off two-dozen men. Looking around, he wondered how else his ancestor had gotten past the guards.

Desmond walked up and down the walls for a bit before spying an unused guard platform sticking out of the wall. A cart was near it, and, climbing it, Desmond could just reach the support beams, using them to hoist himself up. From the higher vantage point, he could see the uneven texture of the wall, the repairs making several hand and footholds. He still wasn't the best climber, but he reminded himself that he was in a construct, this was all in his mind, and he tried to mentally decide that he was the best climber in the world, and started planning a route.

It took almost an hour and several backtracks, but Desmond was able to make his way to the heavy iron gate above the guards. There was a support beam directly below him, and with a deep breath had let go. He almost missed the beam, as it was he damn near broke his arm (or not, this was in his mind, he reminded himself). Once he secured himself, he saw the other beams crisscrossing the entire gate. He leapt from one to another, very carefully, before landing on the ground in a tight roll.

Whatever he thought of the outside, the inside was even worse. More bodies were lined up inside the gate, and the NPCs that milled about the tiny square were covered in splotches and sores of disease.

Desmond was starting to feel sick again...

He took several deep breaths, muttering, "It's only a construct, it's only a construct, that is _not_ a _child_ under that tarp, it's only a construct."

Passing the worst of the destruction and entering a small, shadowed alley, Desmond saw a ladder and quickly climbed it. He knew not to screw around this time. Nothing could be gained by bumping into guards or saving citizens or sitting on benches. His ancestor didn't _do_ stuff like that, he was the right to the point type. No, his first stop would be to the Bureau, and that had to be Desmond's first stop as a result. Since he had no idea where the Bureau was, he quickly ascended to the roofline to see if he could find a brass dome, or hear the sound of wind chimes.

He was disappointed to see that the buildings were all different levels. He would have to get even higher.

Looking around, Desmond found a taller building with an eagle circling it, domed but with a cross. He also saw a bunch of archers patrolling the rooftops, and he groaned that life was being so difficult. Still, ducking here and there, he started to ascend the tower.

He sat on the beam, and like before he felt the overwhelming sense of déjà vu, of that guy, Altair, sitting on this beam, just as disgusted as he. Masyaf had suff _ered nothing like this, Acre had been raped and violated in every way possible and the entire landscape bore the scars to prove it..._

* * *

Altair had spent quite a few months in Acre, almost a decade ago, when Baasir had sent him there to learn more of the Christians and ports, before Salah ad-Din had swept through and conquered. It had been a refreshing city, with a salty sea breeze and a strong European influence, very different from the multicultural Jerusalem he apprenticed in or the calm decorum of Masyaf, his home.

Crouched on a viewpoint now, looking out over the city, Altair was disgusted. The stench of death was everywhere and as the heat of the day continued to rise, the foul smell reached higher and higher. Even high above the rooftops, the demoted assassin could still feel nausea turn his stomach in unpleasant twists from the horrid stink. This was no way to treat the dead. Fifteen months of siege seemed to have reduced the once quaint port of Acre to a veritable hellhole. Streets and alleys that he once knew were no more as collapsed buildings changed the layout. New construction was sporadic and the remains of siege engines were still being dismantled for materials.

With a sigh, Altair glanced at the streets below him and saw a large pile of hay. Without a thought he leapt with complete faith in his abilities, landing in the soft straw and waiting for the sounds to still around him before leaving. He had seen many tall steeples and formerly domed mosques that now bore crosses. He could use these to remap out the city.

It took a good portion of the day, wandering around just the one district. It was fortunate that many of the tall structures he ascended often had hay under them, making it easier to leap down and then find a ladder to climb the roofs once again for speed, instead of constantly climbing back down. He stayed to the rooftops for quickness, but was unsurprised to see archers occasionally patrolling. The roofs were half flat-clay structures he traversed in Masyaf and Damascus, the rest were the slanted wooden build of the Crusaders. The devastation was immense. Buildings were still caked in smoke and scorch marks. One row of buildings anywhere in the town would be half caved in and remained open and rotting like the dead bodies that lined the streets.

Many of the steeples he had climbed he had originally assumed to be churches, but instead turned out to be watchtowers with bells to sound the alarm in case of an attack. The bodies he saw often were missing limbs and had crows and other birds feasting on the remains. Below him he could hear many cries of the poor, "Please, sir, I need the money!" and "I'm so hungry, can't you spare any coins?"

Any news that came to Masyaf from Acre during the siege had been fleeting at best. Whenever a pigeon or messenger could be snuck in Al Mualim would get glances of what was going on in the besieged city. Altair was starting to wish he had reviewed those reports before coming. He would have been better prepared.

He stayed another moment, standing in the remains of a barely standing minaret looking over the city. The siege over and negotiations almost done, for less than a week. Acre had a great deal of healing to do. With a sigh, he spied a cart of hay and leapt down, angling himself so that his regained short sword would not harm him in landing. As in Damascus, he hit the bottom of the cart hard, but suffered no injury this time.

The bureau was not far and Altair was soon climbing a ladder of a stand-alone, domed building in front of probably the only square that didn't look ravaged. The wind chimes were quieter than Damascus.

Altair easily dropped down to the home-like garden, listening to the fountain and looking at the potted plants. He would never admit it, but seeing a touch of home in the destroyed city was a welcome relief. He entered the Bureau and was pleased to see Jabal was still the _rafiq_ , toiling away at his books, studying. The _rafiq_ had aged considerably since Altair had last seen him. His beard was no longer streaked but a pure grey to offset his hood.

In fact, the _rafiq_ was _wearing_ his hood.

That did not bode well. Only those who went out on active duty still wore hoods. It was their means of anonymity. A _rafiq_ or _dai_ was always considered wise enough to no longer need active duty, but to teach the next generation. Just what had happened in Acre during the siege?

"Ah, Altair. A little bird told me you'd be paying a visit."

That was not the easy-going _rafiq_ Altair knew, but one weary of hardships and burdened by responsibility. The siege had clearly not been kind to him.

"Al Mualim has ordered the execution of Garnier de Naplouse and so here I am," Altair remained respectful. Ibtisam had mocked Altair's lack of respect of the _rafiqs_. Altair was not like that. He just did things as swiftly and efficiently as possible. He knew Jabal, and gave him the respect he had earned and deserved. "What can you tell me of him?"

"He is the Grandmaster of the Knights Hospitalier, and surely keeps his quarters in this district. Beyond that, I cannot say." Jabal stood, putting his book away and pulling out a new one. "I have not been able to leave the Bureau for three months and my men dare not come. This building is watched. None know, but they suspect. I cannot help you. I suggest you search the city, see what you can learn from the people."

Altair's frown deepened. The brotherhood was compromised? That was unacceptable. Nor was it Altair's concern. He was here for Garnier and that was it.

"Tell me where they gather and I will see what I can find."

"A public garden north of here, or what's left of them, is as good a place as any to begin, in fact I suggest you do," Jabal turned a page in his book, not looking up. "One of my journeymen has been staying up there. He should have some information if the Crusaders haven't found him yet. There's an abandoned market northwest as well that bears watching. And Maria of Yehoshafat's church to the west remains a popular meeting place. These three locations should be sufficient for your needs."

"I appreciate the information, _rafiq_. It will be put to good use."

"See that it is." Altair turned but Jabal stopped him.

"Altair, a moment." The demoted assassin turned and was surprised to see that old Jabal was directly behind him. Altair hadn't heard him coming.

"I know of your demotion and of your wrongs. Frankly I don't care what Al Mualim plans for your redemption or whatever missions send you my way. But you are a loose arrow that will go whichever way pleases you." Jabal looked at him with hard and weary eyes. "You will _not_ do whatever you will here in Acre. This is not the city you remember."

Altair bristled at that, but said nothing.

"There are three rules for you here in Acre, Altair. Only three, and each of them is of the utmost importance." Jabal stood straight, his arms behind his back. "The first I have hinted at. Do not come here unless absolutely necessary. No one knows of this building, but if the Christians keep seeing someone on my roof, watching will become suspicion."

The old _rafiq_ let out a tired sigh.

"This is still a sanctuary and one you'll need after your mission as it is the only place where you can _truly_ hide. But you cannot stay while investigating. There are plenty of derelict buildings if you need rest."

Altair nodded. He hadn't stayed at the Damascus Bureau either. This would not be a problem.

"Second, for your own sake, do not drink _any_ of the water here. Rely on whatever you have in your skin _only_. Not even the water here at the Bureau or the fountain out front."

Altair blinked. "What?"

Jabal scoffed, his face lined with intense anger. "It seems that the Christians truly know how to inflict suffering without even lifting a blade. They left rotting corpses in the river. Our water, even here at the Bureau, is tainted with disease." The _rafiq_ looked away, the weight of the past fifteen months dragging him down. "Even now, people throughout the city are dying because of the siege, because we are _still_ besieged by disease. I have sent an apprentice upriver with a cart and barrels to restock our own supplies, but it will easily take a week before he returns." The _rafiq_ rubbed his temple. "Assuming the damned Crusaders don't confiscate it on the way back. It will be good practice of stealth for him," Jabal muttered.

"I understand," Altair replied. With the full heat of summer already resting around them, this would make his time here a challenge. His waterskin was not even a third full after a long day of climbing towers to remap the city. He had not thought to ration his water and this would cost him.

The rafiq stood tall once more, his face more serious than any Altair had seen before. "Lastly, you _will_ stay your blade or I will gut you myself and throw you to the animals that reside in human skin. The people here have only just gotten freedom. The Saracens that were stationed here when Salah ad-Din conquered have mostly left, but there are some who weren't soldiers still around. The Christians don't trust them and blame them for the sieges. If even _one_ innocent person dies by your blade, fighting will once again break out in the city and the slaughter that will take place will likely have another battle here."

Altair nodded. The city had suffered enough. He was not to bring any more. "I understand."

Jabal frowned, and in a blink had both Altair's hands behind him and kicked him to kneeling. "I say you do not," Jabal said firmly. "You have always gone about things your own way. I don't _care_ about that. I _do_ care about this city and the hell it has become. I do not say this lightly. The people out there hold the answers you seek, not I, not this Bureau. And those people are _animals_ that only barely are holding their humanity. You will _not_ aggravate the situation. Guards are still killed by the civilians, you can slaughter them to your heart's content, but you will _not_ kill the citizens themselves. Am I clear?"

Altair did not grunt or show any weakness. The old _rafiq_ clearly still had his moves. Would have needed them if he did active duty as the hood implied and Altair did not appreciate being taken to school when he was the best assassin in the Order, especially since the only reason Jabal bested him was because Altair had not expected it. "As you wish," he replied calmly.

Jabal held him a heartbeat more before releasing him. "It is a few hours until nightfall. Once it is dark, leave. And don't come back until you have finished planning."

Altair only nodded before going to the shelves to find a European book to brush up on the languages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We should probably mention now that we are not nearly as well researched for this fic as we feel we should be. Any and all historical information we mention in this fic is gotten solely from Wikipedia - and at best those were nuggets. If anyone out there is some kind of expert in the Third Crusade or is a history buff in general, please let us know if there's anything we got wrong or left out. We want to know.
> 
> ... For someone who protests over and over that he isn't an assassin, we always found it a little strange that Desmond never really reacts to the fact that he's reliving a guy mercilessly killing a long string of people. We wanted to touch on it, even just a little, and use it to explain his outburst to Lucy that evening. It's also a general attempt in the "Make-Desmond-Noticeable" project. For all we see him in ACI, his sequences are sadly a yawn in comparison to Altair and Ezio, and in ACII he barely shows. Brotherhood, well, that's its own story. :D
> 
> And now we meet and flesh out another Rafiq. This one had a name, which surprised us since none of them shy of Malik were named, but Jabal is what's listed in the Assassin's Creed Wikipedia, and so we used it. Acre itself is almost its own character, what with bodies and destroyed buildings, drunks at the docks, etc. The character of the cities is, perhaps, our favorite aspects of the Assassin's Creed games. From the merchant capital of Damascus to the multicultural Jerusalem to the rich art and architecture of Florence, every city is memorable and unique in its own way. We couldn't come close to capturing it, but we tried.
> 
> As always, let us know what you think.


	6. Stay Your Blade

That night Altair slipped out of the Bureau in nothing but moonlight. Jabal didn't even see him off, instead heading through a trapdoor behind the counter to deal with something. Altair didn't appreciate the snubbing, but the old _rafiq_ clearly had many worries and concerns that he had to handle. Without leaving the Bureau. How did anything get done in Acre?

But that was none of Altair's concern. He was an assassin not a _rafiq_ or _dai_.

He wandered the city again and was disturbed to see absolutely _no one_ out in the streets. Not even a furtive messenger flitting about shadows. Everyone was staying in whatever homes or hovels they had - including open buildings that seemed likely to crumble at the slightest movement.

Altair paused in the shadows of a Christian slanted roof. The only people he saw about were archers who kept their eyes trained to any shadow that so much as flickered.

If there was no one out to investigate, then he needed to stop and rest while he could. A sky garden provided all the privacy he needed. He settled for the night, as comfortable as he could be without removing his harness and equipment. He did not sleep. He never could when on assignment, but he rested and felt his surroundings. Archers occasionally walked past, the harsh English vowels sounding out complaints; about the watch and how they had families that were sick and that there was never enough guards at the hospital as a result. There just weren't enough to cover each other - particularly the guard Allen for the northeast part of the hospital, who visited a dying brother often, leaving his post unattended. Others, too, were quick to leave their posts to see to sick or dying relatives, and no one said anything to the master; they didn't want more trouble on top of the pile they already had.

It was good practice for Altair to listen to all the foreign tongues. Really, Christians had no cohesion.

After dawn he slipped out of the sky garden and dropped to an empty alleyway, ignoring the body without legs as he walked out to the thoroughfare that was filling with people.

Altair let the flow of the people carry him until he climbed the steps to what was once a beautiful European garden with a repurposed Muslim fountain and redone European stonework. The trees meant to line the garden all looked sickly, those that were alive at any rate. Several of the larger trees lacked any leaves at all and some of the pines were broken from all the fighting and catapults of the siege, no doubt. In a shadowed corner, he recognized the gray _tagelmust_ of a journeyman, the one Jabal had mentioned was in the area.

"Ah, if it isn't Altair," the journeyman said expansively. "Remember me? No?"

Altair shrugged. He knew the face and voice. That was enough.

The journeyman seemed angered at this, however. "I learned my craft at the same time as you, still no memories of me."

Altair scoffed. "Being forgettable is a great talent when seeking not to be noticed."

"Doesn't matter," the journeyman grunted. "Al Mualim has charged me, indeed all of the Brotherhood, with a mission that I am honored to perform. I must test you. _What_ a pleasure."

There was no hiding the smile behind the scarf covering his face. Altair grit his teeth, but said nothing. He was, after all, a _demoted_ assassin.

The journeyman continued. "I have hidden flags in this area. Find them and return to me. Be _quick_." Under his breath, he muttered, "It is such a shame that the old man insisted that I must help you if you succeed."

Altair hid a smile that Jabal _was_ ensuring that he had aid.

A quick glance around the "area" and Altair turned to the journeyman. "These flags are not hidden. They are in clear sight of the streets."

The informant merely crossed his arms. "That is so."

Altair narrowed his eyes. "I will be seen by the citizens."

"That is not my problem."

"It could compromise the Brotherhood."

"And what do you care, Altair? As long as you get your information how does the Brotherhood matter to you?"

Altair's glare made the journeyman flinch ever so slightly, but it was enough of a reaction for Altair to count it is a victory.

"If this truly does bring trouble to Jabal, it will be _your_ fault. The _rafiq_ recommended that I seek you out. _You_ chose to have me parade myself around."

The informant looked away briefly. "I am counting my heartbeats, Altair. You'd best move quickly."

He took off swiftly, easily leaping from beam to beam, from platform to rooftop, grabbing each flag. He ignored the people down below, befuddled by his hasty race above them.

"Can someone tell me _why_ he's doing that?"

"He's going to hurt himself and when he does I _won't_ help him."

"Here now, what's he doing?"

"How odd."

Many of the flags were hidden on rooftops, but many still remained out in the open and Altair did not like being so exposed. Carrying them all quickly became annoying, the shafts of wood that the flags were attached to were not as strong as they should have been, they bent this way and that, the wobbling affecting his balance and making it difficult for them to stay under his arm. The canvas, too, kept catching on things that Altair _thought_ he had cleared. How had any apprentice ever enjoyed this, how had _he_ enjoyed this when he was a young teenager? Still, he collected the twenty flags and returned to the angry journeyman. In less than a hundred heartbeats, no less.

"I'm impressed," the journeyman said begrudgingly. "Not enough to change my mind about you, but since the _rafiq_ commands, here is what I know about your next target."

Altair smirked in victory.

"Garnier hides in the Hospitalier fortress. Getting in to the fortress will require... cunning." There was no question that the informant doubted Altair had any. "That's all I have for you," he sneered before walking briskly off.

Altair let him go. He had what he needed, what did he care of other's opinions?

He scouted the area of the gardens for another hour, to see if he could learn anything else, before heading to the abandoned _souk_ Jabal had mentioned. He had seen it the previous day as he'd remapped the city and had noted the guards who stood at each entrance.

Really, the Christians were just shouting that something interesting was there.

And since the Christians made such a tempting offering of the guarded and abandoned _souk_ , who was Altair to turn away? He climbed some of the bell towers that he had the day before, this time studying the _souk_ and the area around it for anything interesting.

_There_. He saw a hole in the roof of the market, no doubt another scar left over by the siege. Still, the roof was patrolled by archers. _What_ do _the Crusaders hide in there?_ Altair could not help but wonder. He dropped to the roofs and approached cautiously. Jabal had warned him to stay his blade and while he normally did not care, Altair would listen here in Acre. The old _rafiq_ had made it quite plain what would happen if some citizen died. As such, Altair did not even wish to risk it with the archers lining the roofs. Besides, for guards to mysteriously be stabbed might draw attention to his presence. Garnier was already hidden within the fortress. It would not do to have him warned of Altair's coming.

So he stayed low and as an archer walked by, Altair swiftly slid over the curved roof and dropped through to a platform below, once more hidden in the shadows.

The first thing Altair noticed was the silence. A _souk_ , even in the dawn or evenings, was often bustling with both patrons and merchants as stalls did early or late sales while setting up or packing for the day. Damascus's own _souk Al-Silaah_ was always filled to bursting with merchants, even outside the _souk_ itself with people shouting out their wares and trying to catch the attention of any passer-by.

The merchant hall of Acre didn't even have the candles lit. The only light came from broken skylights and even that was not enough to pierce some of the dark shadows. The merchant stands that Altair could see were boarded up and long since left to rot, much like the rest of the city, with cobwebs layering the stands and rats scurrying through the darkness.

It was a pitiable existence for a place that was meant for lively activity and transactions.

But the most interesting thing Altair saw was directly below him, in the circle of light left by the roof's hole. Two Christians were laughing together, both balding and both dressed in the rags he'd seen the citizens wearing throughout the district.

"So what you got there?" said one, Altair identifying the language as English.

"Rubbish," said the other, "the man had no coin to speak of, just some damn tube."

Thieves then. Understandable given the state of the city.

"All's I found," the thief continued, "was a bit o' paper with these nonsense scratchings."

Altair let out a silent sigh. He never understood how the Europeans could keep so many of their own uneducated.

"Them's not nonsense but words and letters!" The man rubbed his bald head with a chuckle.

The thief scoffed. "Why's a man puttin' words and letters in a tube?" The thief let out a chuckle. "Waste of a _tube_ if y'ask me."

The other didn't laugh at the innuendo, but his eyes sparkled nonetheless. "Must be important," he reasoned, "give it here! An' I'll have a look!"

"Like you helped last time?" the thief got defensive, stepping back toward the shadows. "I ain't lettin' you steal this."

"Well ain't _you_ clever?" the other mocked. "Have fun with it then." He turned and stalked away, clearly frustrated that he couldn't make money from whatever paper the thief had taken.

Of course, an illiterate thief wouldn't know what to do with it either. Altair was the only one present that could judge the value of the letter, so he just needed to appropriate it.

He swiftly and silently jumped off the platform to a beam, then an old stand, then the ground. The shadows of the abandoned _souk_ were his ally as he ghosted after the thief. There were guards sporadically in the hall, but with very little light, Altair breezed by them. The thief was a complete amateur, and had likely surprised whatever messenger he'd stolen the letter from and bludgeoned him to get the tube. As such, the amateur didn't know how to protect the goods that he'd stolen. Altair easily lifted the letter and was heading back the way he came with none the wiser.

Climbing back up to the platform he'd been on before, Altair looked at the letter under the light.

_Master,_

_Progress is slow. We should endeavor to reclaim what's been taken from us or I fear we'll be discovered before we have a chance to act. My work on substitutes shows some promise as certain local flora can be used to induce a similar state. Be warned, however: the effects are only temporary and subjects tend to develop a resistance, requiring increased dosage._

_Unfortunately, they can only take so much before exhaustion claims them. I've lost far too many in this manner and it breaks my heart._

_Your man in Jerusalem should be commended for his diligence. My supplies remain sufficient and I am no longer forced to use locals, helping to defray suspicion. I do worry about our loss in Damascus, though I have sufficient arms and armor to continue for a while longer. He will need to be replaced within the month, however, or our soldiers will be forced to wield table knives. Which brings me to my next concern..._

_What do you intend to do about our enemy? I fear that the losses we suffered are but the start. I feel secure enough within the hospital's walls, but it would be best if we dealt with this trouble before it had a chance to bloom. My men are yours for the task if it's required. Merely make your desires known to me._

_Your brother in peace._

_-G._

It took Altair the better part of two hours to translate it, and he spent most of the hours cursing Christians and their many languages. Garnier, from his name, was French, the thieves spoke English and the letter was in Latin. It was a painful process to translate, since Altair had not had to translate Latin in some time. If he ever came across something that needed translating, that's what novices and apprentices were for. They needed the practice.

... This was a harsh reminder that some of his skills had dulled.

Altair pushed that aside and analyzed the contents of the letter. Garnier was an associate of Tamir, that much was clear from references to a loss in Damascus (Altair smiled) and having sufficient arms for now. However, that was unsettling. Tamir was clearly Saracen, through and through and Garnier had been with the Knights Hospitalier for over ten years, being Christian down to his core.

What could make a Christian Crusader and Muslim Saracen work together? And who was this third man in Jerusalem? What supplies did this man in Jerusalem provide and how did providing them defray suspicion? Garnier talked of local flora and increased dosages. Was the man in Jerusalem providing herbs? Just what was Garnier doing in that hospital fortress? This provided more questions than answers.

Another troubling thing... what had been taken that local flora needed to replace? Altair's mind automatically went to the treasure of Solomon's Temple, but he had taken that from Robert de Sable and the Templars, and that was a _treasure_. An item of historical value, no doubt, but it could not affect individuals. Why de Sable had wanted it was a mystery but that wasn't the problem. There was no connection between the Templars and Tamir and Garnier. Not that Altair was aware of.

He sighed. He didn't have enough information. " _Your greatest failure was born from knowing too much._ " So Altair lived in ignorance.

He did not like it.

Looking at the letter again, he paused. Garnier implied that the arms Tamir had provided were going to an army. Which army? Tamir had helped the Saracens and was known to get support of the merchant's guild by being a good Muslim. The unknown client, surely wouldn't be Christian? And if Garnier's army wasn't the Hospitaliers (as the one's he'd seen didn't bear the armor or weapons that Tamir would have provided), then who was? A letter he had intercepted meant for Tamir said that there was an order for a thousand troops. The Knights Hospitalier left in Acre would barely count to four hundred, the rest back with Richard preparing his march southward.

And most troubling of all, who was this "Master"?

Altair put that aside and smiled. Garnier felt safe in his fortress's walls. Altair would have to correct that assumption.

Rolling up the letter, he put it in his pouch. The sun was higher and higher, and its light was starting to fall onto the platform he had been resting on. He'd have to leave quickly or the guards on the abandoned _souk_ 's roof would spy his white robes as they walked by. Altair was disappointed that he had found no reason why the Crusaders guarded the old merchant stalls.

He was glancing up through the hole in the roof to see if the guards were sufficiently distracted when a sound filtered up to his ears, a door creaking open and shutting.

Interesting.

Altair stayed to the ceiling beams as he used the approaching noon sun coming through the small skylights to light his way. His sharp eyes caught nothing until he was almost at the other end of the _souk_. There he crouched on a beam and watched.

A boarded up stall was pulled away to where the merchants would normally keep their extra wares. From within came a Hospitalier Knight, glancing around in the darkness, before coming out fully with sword drawn.

There was a harsh whisper in French and a cough before slaves were ushered forth from the small room. Altair narrowed his eyes. Why were Hospitaliers transporting slaves?

A short whistle sounded and another knight approached from the darkened halls, with a bag of rags that was quickly distributed amongst the slaves, making them look more like the destitute citizens outside.

Well this was interesting.

Staying to the beams in the ceiling, Altair followed the small crowd to the nearest entrance. Just before they could reach the daylight, they halted. There were just the two knights and close to two dozen disguised slaves. With a nod to the guards at the entrance, one of the Crusaders walked with six of the slaves without even a glance around. The citizens outside paid no heed to guards' business. A few moments later, after the flow of the crowd had completely changed to different faces, one of the guards for the entrance took another set of slaves. Again, once the crowd flowed to different people and one of the entrance guards took another set of slaves.

Finally, Altair watched the last of the slaves leave with the last knight and the entrance of the _souk_ was unguarded.

Altair dropped down and slid out of the abandoned merchant hall and was once again a part of the crowds. It didn't take long to find a ladder and reach the roofs and even less to find the odd patrolling of one Crusader moving six people along by pointed sword.

It was a clever ruse. The rags made the slaves look closer to prisoners, and the blood splatters and vague limping that some exhibited also implied injury. Most of the common citizens kept their distance, wanting no part of whatever the knights were guarding and moving. One beggar showed uncommon bravery as she ran right up to one of the knights. "Please sir, do you have any money? I beg of you, sir, I _beg_ of you! I'm poor and sick and _hungry_!"

The knight had nothing to say, just pushing her roughly away. She stood in his path once more, but the knight growled something in French that Altair was unfamiliar with but could guess was foul language of some kind.

As they approached the northern wall of the city, Altair descended to the streets again as the roofs became more easily seen and exposed.

He melded with the crowds, keeping the guard and his prisoners in easy sight, occasionally sitting on a bench and letting things flow around him. The thoroughfare opened up to the steps that lead up to fortress and Altair leaned easily against a wall, watching the guard poke the slaves up and into the hospital.

So this was where Garnier was hiding.

Altair had a moment of temptation. The man he was after was _right there_ in the fortress. If Altair were to act, he'd have the element of surprise, the guards wouldn't stand a chance, they'd all be dead before they knew what hit them.

But Altair did not bear the feather, and no matter how he'd done things his own way, he _always_ had the feather and blessings of a  _rafiq_ before he went about the kill. What he was doing now was tedious and meant for underlings, but it was his task and he would not get the feather until he'd done everything he could.

He was here to show Al Mualim that he had not lost his skills, that he had been a master at investigations before he had focused his talents on the actual kill.

So with a heavy sigh, Altair turned away from where his target hid.

A part of him wondered why slaves were hiding in the _souk_ and then brought to the fortress, but that didn't bear anything on the where and when Garnier would be killed, so he pushed such thoughts aside. He had more work to do.

Altair stayed in the streets this time, occasionally using alleys to cut through and stepping over corpses if needed. He spent his time just listening to the people. The languages were many, English, French, German, a smattering of Hungarian, and the Latin of the priests and scholars. It took intense focus to listen from one conversation to another, unlike in Damascus where all spoke Arabic or Turkish and all he needed to do was listen for keywords.

He spared a sip from his water-skin, remembering Jabal's word about the fountains that still worked. Given the spread of disease, Altair would not even trust the food. He would get something to eat when he returned to the Bureau. Surely Jabal would have food there.

The afternoon of listening to the people proved interesting. They were not happy with Garnier. Rumors were rampant that he had been exiled from France for his twisted experiments, that all his "patients" were just bodies for whatever his deranged mind came up with. Those who walked by the fortress claimed that they could hear screams within that would give them nightmares and that those suffering from the prolific diseases after over a year of siege and poisoned water, were always turned away. How could a healer turn away the sick? Why were there so many guards around a _hospital_?

Garnier also seemed to take any of the actual workers in the city to take care of his own fortress. Candelabras were to be replaced because the people weren't important; it was the _knights_ who sacrificed, so they must come first. Builders were reinforcing the hospital and unable to help with the construction desperately needed throughout the city. The people were upset and tired of being on the bottom of everyone's priority list. What did Garnier need local tradesman for? His fortress still stood unscathed, why build it up further?

The questions went on and on. The people didn't seem that fond of Garnier, but did not have the strength to stand up to him after having already been disheartened and demoralized from the siege. Altair let out a soft sigh as he drifted amongst the people. Common folk, the average person in any city across the world, no matter the culture or rules, very often lacked the courage to stand up for what they believed in, always believing it to be someone else's problem. It was why the Assassins were so important. They did what the people could not.

But those were the worries and concerns for Al Mualim. Altair merely did as he was asked. Thinking about the welfare of the people would not aide him in killing Garnier. He had learned what he needed. It was time to head back to the bureau.

"You say that Garnier does not hear your suffering!"

Altair's ears twitched.

"This is unfair! Untrue!"

A supporter of Garnier? Altair stalked closer.

"He is but one man, gifted as he is, and can only help so many!" A town crier, preaching on the steps of a small church. Altair stayed in the stretching shadows of late afternoon and continued to listen.

"Soon, my friends, soon the good doctor will attend to your needs! Be patient! Hold hope close!" the crier thrust a hand to his heart. "There are many in need of aide and only one of him! He works tirelessly to serve and save! But these things take time!"

The crier continued and Altair listened with great interest to the propaganda. It seemed doubtful that Garnier would have such a vocal supporter, but if this man was paid or an honest follower, it did not matter. He had information and Altair would get it.

The sun continued to set and as late afternoon turned to early evening, the crier's voice was starting to give out. He was turning to the side to clear his throat and occasionally cough. As the people started heading home for their dinners, the crier had fewer people to hear him and finally came down off the steps, heading down a thoroughfare that lead downhill. Another beggar came forward to the crier, but he brushed her aside. She never even noticed Altair as he easily kept to the shadows.

The crier eventually paused at a well, clearly debating on whether or not to partake of the diseased water of town. Altair took his moment to pounce. A swift kick to the back of the knees sent the man sprawling on the ground and Altair wrapped his elbow around the man's neck in a choke hold before throwing a precise punch to the kidneys, knocking the wind out of him and ensure a better grasp around the neck.

"Mercy!" the crier cried out. "Mercy! Don't kill me! I'll do anything you want!"

Good. This would not take long. "You serve Garnier?" he intoned in his best English.

"He-he _makes_ me say these things," the man cowered, his hand brushing back the curly blond hair, "to keep the people from revolting. To give them hope and make them eager for his touch."

Interesting. This town crier seemed quite petrified of Garnier.

"Tell me everything you can about the man," Altair demanded coldly.

"Y-yes! O-of course! I-I _know_ what happens within... what he _really_ does!"

"Go on."

"Not sick, not wounded when they enter, but once he's got his _hands_ on them, _then_ the pain begins!" The blond shuddered, curling almost into himself in a horror only he could see.

"He is no healer, then, just a sick, cruel man." One who deserved Altair's blade.

"I-I don't know what it is he does to make them cry so loud, but it _must_ be stopped before more are made to suffer. Will you stop him?" the crier begged, reaching forward to grab Altair's robes in desperation.

"It's why you still live," he replied softly.

"He _is_ cautious. You _must_ pick the proper time," the crier replied, apparently eager to provide the needed information. "Go to him when he attends to the patients, he forgets the world around him, becomes lost in his work. Yes, strike then."

"I thank you for the information," Altair said with sincerity. This would be useful once he was inside.

"Then you'll let me go?"

"Would that I could." He grabbed the shoulder of the crier, his blade already extending through his missing finger when he paused. _"Some do ill out of ignorance or fear. These men can be saved_." Al Mualim's words came back to him, as did Jabal's warning not to kill civilians. This man was clearly petrified of Garnier and only acted out of that fear. He had readily provided information, not even offering the slightest trace of resistance, and even now as he slumped in recognition of the fate Altair implied.

It made Altair hesitate.

Did this man truly deserve to die? He could not be left alone, Garnier would have the Hospitalier knights looking for him when he did not return to the hospital or wherever he was meant to stay. It would mean that Garnier would discover the Brotherhood was after him, since this man was too scared to _not_ be honest. And if he tried to lie, Garnier might notice it. But to kill a man who was so ready to help seemed... a waste.

Besides, it might spark the war Jabal suspected was a breath away within the city that would hold Richard and his forces.

And that would _truly_ be inconvenient.

So Altair retracted his hidden blade and instead punched the man swiftly in the eye and then again in the other.

Once the man was down and holding his face, Altair dragged him to a shadowed alley. "Your name?"

The man just groaned.

Altair grunted in annoyance and ripped part of the man's sleeve off to wrap around the puffing eyes. "Your _name_!" Altair growled, all authority.

"T-Thomas."

Doubting Thomas. How fitting.

"Can you see?"

"Of course not! You've blinded me!" the man cried back.

"Good." Altair checked the eyes carefully, grateful to see the bruising that was swiftly rising was not any sort of permanent damage. One eye was already swollen almost shut. The other was not as damaged, but Thomas would not know that. "I can take you somewhere safe, but you can not guide others back. We will get you safely out of the city."

There was a heavy pause. "Truly?" the man whispered. "You can help me escape? I can go back _home_?"

"Escape the city, that I believe can be promised," Altair replied, carefully wrapping Thomas's eyes. "Going back to your home? That I don't know."

"Either way," the man replied, "I'll be _free_. Oh thank you, sir. Thank you! You are an angel of mercy upon me!"

"I am no angel."

"It matters not! Oh thank you, Master!"

"Give me any of your coins. If the knights ask, you have been mugged and I am guiding you home. The bandage should conceal your face well enough. I am but a humble scholar."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

Altair helped the man up, putting one of Thomas's hands on Altair's shoulders. "I am playing the part of one who doesn't know English. Occasionally say _sakan_ ," he pronounced the Arabic word carefully, "so it appears that you are guiding me."

" _Sakan_ ," Thomas repeated, his pronunciation of "dwelling" sounding very English and not Arabic, but it would have to do.

Altair glanced up at the sun. "I will not be able to get you to safety before nightfall. But I will be by your side until we reach it tomorrow, so you have no need to worry."

"Whatever it takes, sir, I am at your mercy."

Altair nodded, though Thomas could not see. "Do you have any food or water on you?"

The man shook his head. "I have run out of my wine rations that that man gave me and I was not given any food for today's oration."

Altair looked at his water-skin and the shook it to judge how much water remained.

Jabal had clearly stated that the fountains at the Bureau were no good and that water would not be back for almost a week, depending on whatever apprentice or novice had been sent out. Altair hoped to be gone by then, as there were still so many names on that list to redeem himself.

With a quiet sigh, he put his water-skin away. He had survived on no food or water before, but he needed any edge he could get for the mission with Garnier. From what he learned, even with archers and guards disappearing to see to sick families, the fortress remained heavily guarded and giving up what water he had left before he could infiltrate and kill Garnier seemed a stupid move.

"We should start moving. Keep your hand on my shoulder."

"Of course, sir, whatever you say," Thomas replied. Hesitantly, he added " _Sakan_?" and Altair could not quite contain a quiet chuckle.

The demoted assassin made certain he took a circuitous route, but staying well away from the fortress. He circled the area and would occasionally pause, letting Thomas sit and rest after such a tiring day. The former-crier would occasionally ask questions when they were alone, in an attempt to pass the time, but Altair was not so talkative. He was focused on surroundings. He paused once in a while, turning to Thomas and asking in clear and slow Arabic which direction to go. Thomas picked up on what was happening quickly and would point in a random direction that Altair would then go. None of the citizens of the city paid any mind and they were only stopped once by a knight. Thomas tried to explain, but the Crusader only spoke German. They were harassed for a few moments, but the knight finally gave up, and waved them by.

The streets were almost empty and the sun almost set when Altair quietly warned Thomas of steps he would need to make over rubble. He even turned to hold Thomas's arms as he pulled him into an abandoned building, the roof missing, save for a tiny corner of it.

"We will rest here," Altair said softly. He helped Thomas down into a corner and stayed in front of him, instant protection should any try to get into their shadowed area. Altair rather doubted they'd be accosted since _no one_ ever seemed to be out during the night here in Acre.

This was all a bother. It was more work that wouldn't be necessary if he had just killed Thomas as he had meant to. But... Thomas had been so desperate, and something in that plea had reached Altair. This was a person who did not wish to serve Garnier but believed himself to have no choice. Normally, Altair scoffed, since anyone could stand up and resist whatever circumstances they bore. But unlike others who broke down in intimidation, Thomas had been eager to help, providing as much as he could.

The moon rose high in the night and the former-town-crier was fast asleep. Altair sighed at the trouble and took another sip from his water-skin. He settled himself down for a long night.

In the morning, once the sun was high in the sky and the streets were buzzing, Altair woke Thomas.

"Yessir," the man said sleepily, getting up and stretching before the injuries Altair bestowed made themselves known. "Oww..."

Altair offered no comfort. He had done what was needed. "We will make it there before noon."

"Yes, sir," Thomas replied, more awake now. "I thank you again, sir."

Altair was uncomfortable with such gratitude being showered on him. "Be grateful once you have escaped Acre." He stood at the rubble-strewn doorway, glancing at the streets. "Can you move now?"

"A moment, sir," Thomas replied, standing and working through the kinks left from sleeping on the ground after the beating Altair had given him. After a few grunts he nodded. "Are you still here, sir?" Thomas asked, suddenly quiet.

"Of course," Altair grunted, irritated that his own silence worked against him at times. "We will be on our way now."

He helped Thomas out of the rubble and started a spiraled path towards the Bureau. The sun steadily rose higher when they reached the wide square with the fountain that stood before the bureau.

"Say nothing," Altair said quietly.

Thomas remained silent as the assassin led him to the shadowed doorway that had the ladder to the roof.

"Wait here," he said, letting the man sit in a corner. "I need to speak with someone."

"Of course, sir," Thomas whispered.

"You are hidden from the street. Stay silent and none shall find you."

Thomas nodded and Altair ascended the ladder swiftly, quickly dropping down into the closed in garden and stepping into the Bureau. Jabal was at the counter, bent over another tome, and looked up when he saw the demoted assassin. "You need to search the city for clues Altair. The people hold the answers you seek, not I, not this Bureau."

"I know, _rafiq_ ," Altair said, choosing his words carefully. "It is the because of the people that I... need your guidance."

The old man stared at him, his gaze suddenly narrow. "Just what do you mean by that?" he asked, suddenly weary.

"You bade that I not kill civilians. A man that I interrogated wishes to escape the city; he seems to have information on the man I'm to kill. It would be a fair trade, but until we've gleaned everything we can I've nowhere to put him."

Jabal bent back over his book, examining one last sentence before closing it. "I still have a few locations left that have not been compromised by the siege. Where is he?"

"At the ladder."

"Are you an idiot?" Jabal shouted, standing up. "What part of this building being watched did you not understand? We cannot afford to have a Hospitalier man disappear here! The Master was right, you are a _novice_!"

The words stung but Altair held his ground. "I have blinded him and taken the better part of two days to get here to keep him from knowing where he is. He does not understand Arabic in the slightest and I am certain we have not been followed. His disappearance, if it is noticed would be tracked to where he was orating, and I _certainly_ wasn't noticed when I chose to interrogate him. Be at peace, I would not bring harm to a brother."

"Says the man who brought the Templars to Masyaf," Jabal hissed.

The two stared at each other for a long time, neither backing down, before a pigeon flew into the Bureau and landed in a cage. Jabal took the distraction and grabbed the bird, picking its message. The note only made his mood sour more, and he rubbed a wrinkled hand over his face and down his beard. "I am getting too old for this," he murmured. Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned back to Altair. "Fortune seems to favor you, Altair," he said. "It would seem that one of my journeymen has already created a distraction for your little kidnapping, but now he is in trouble. He hides along the west wall. Go and help him, and I will handle the most recent problem you have added to my extended list."

"I understand," Altair said, turning around and leaving. Had he truly brought ill to the respected Jabal when he was following the rules placed upon him? It did not matter; he would do as he was told, anything to redeem himself in Al Mualim's eyes.

He took yet another roundabout route away from the Bureau. He was becoming quite familiar with this district of the city, and in spite of his route it did not take him long to reach the west wall. He followed the narrow street, peeking in derelict buildings or shadowed alleys to find the journeyman who needed help. The street suddenly expanded to a moderate square, a few benches and trees and many more beggars, but Altair kept to the wall, now lower, overlooking the cliffs and the ocean, and a large steeple that he had ascended two days ago when he had first arrived at the city. He walked into the shadow of the large building and saw a white shadow, and Altair knew he had found him.

Walking forward, he patted the man's shoulder to see the journeyman jump.

"Altair?" he said surprised to see the famous demoted assassin. The shock quickly devolved to panic, however, as he started to spurt out shaky, garbled sentences. "He is after me! He saw me; he will kill me! And my wife and children!"

"Be calm, brother," Altair said softly, disgusted that a fellow assassin could so easily be spun into a panic over someone threatening to kill him.

The journeymen shook his head, his hands holding his temples. "What a mess..." he moaned, sitting down on the ground. He looked up to Altair, his eyes despondent. "Have you come to end my misery?"

Altair blinked. "What?" he demanded.

His shock seemed to spread to the journeyman. "No?" he asked, disbelieving. He heaved a sigh of relief. "Al Mualim has more compassion than I thought. Could you help me, then? A knight of the Hospitalier is after me. If you could eliminate him, you would do a fellow..." he paused, hesitant to finish saying _brother_ , "a real honor. I've been here in Acre since the Crusaders were laying siege, I can give you important information in return." He quickly described the knight, the depiction very detailed, and it was not long before Altair was off on the hunt.

He did not like that the informant thought Al Mualim lacked compassion. The Master was hard and unyielding, and strict in the worst measure of the word, but he did not lack compassion. If he did, Altair would be dead, and not given a second chance to prove himself. It did not sit well with him, that the informant thought so little of the Master. Moreover he did not like that the informant thought _Altair_ had come to end his life. Just what sort of rumors were being spread about him? The annoyance of it grated at him.

Altair made his way north back along the wall, looking for a black smock with the white cross signifying a Hospitalier Knight. If the man were looking for the informant, he would likely be checking the destroyed buildings and other hide spots. Only four blocks up Altair spotted the man, hand on the hilt of his sword, as he shoved people aside and looked at every broken down structure in sight. There were fewer people here, only a beggar dared to speak much in this part of the city.

"Please, sir, I'm poor I'm sick and I'm _hungry!_ " she all but shouted, accosting anyone and everyone. Her eyes locked onto Altair and she moved in. The assassin cursed his luck, he could not shove her aside without drawing attention to himself, he could not kill her and end her misery, and without those two options he was left only silence. That only gave the beggar fuel, and if anything she became even louder. "Please, sir, just a few coins is all I ask, just a few coins!"

Altair steadfastly stepped around her, turned his back to her, sidestepped, and slipped around another civilian, all while keeping an eye on the Hospitalier Knight as he checked the broken buildings. A small group of people started coming down the street, and Altair ducked into it, the beggar still shouting but unable to breach the wall of four or five people he kept between him and her, and soon she lost interest, finding someone else to beg off of, and Altair sighed in relief.

The knight stepped into another run down building. He was almost to the square; Altair had no time to waste. Once the knight was in the shadows of the building, Altair snuck up from behind and grabbed the man's neck, holding him just long enough to thrust his hidden blade up under the ribcage, piercing a lung and giving an almost bloodless death. The man gave an unhealthy gurgle as blood filled his lungs and he slumped to the ground. Altair cleaned his blade on his sash and retracted it, exiting casually and entering the square.

The informant was where Altair had left him, pacing slightly in the shadows, waiting for word.

"He's dead?" he asked, eyes hopeful.

Altair nodded.

"Oh," he sighed, his body sagging with relief. "I am extremely grateful."

"I am glad," Altair said softly. "Can you tell me what you know, now, about Garnier?"

"Yes," the informant said, pulling himself together quickly. "So, here is what I know about Garnier de Naplouse, Grandmaster of the Hospitalier: Garnier lets his patients roam the halls of his fortress. No one, save scholars, may enter his personal workspace, and the rooftops are guarded by archers. I'm sure this information will help deliver Garnier to the gates of Hell."

It was nothing Altair didn't already know, but the confirmation was nice, and he wondered if he could work the scholars into the plan he was formulating.

"I can disappear now," the journeyman said. "My safe house is not far from here, and I can get word to my family. Thank you, Altair, thank you."

The demoted assassin nodded, watching the journeyman go, and noted with appreciation that he disappeared into the crowds quite well. Altair had a feeling of... accomplishment, as he made his way back to the Bureau.

It was late afternoon when he arrived; Thomas was no longer at the base of the ladder. Still, he waited until dusk before climbing the ladder and entering the Bureau. The town crier was inside, blindfold removed and he sat by a chessboard, huddled in a ball. "Hello?" he asked in his English drawl. His eyes were still swollen, he likely could see very little, especially with no candles lit in the twilight darkness.

"You are still here," Altair said in English. "Good. Where is the other?"

"Oh, Master it's you," Thomas said, relief welling in him. "I don't know, sir, he left some hours ago. He does not speak English, I'm not sure if he knew why I'm here. Am I to leave the city, now?"

"Not as yet," Altair said. "You said you would help me, and now is as good a time as any for you to deliver on your promise."

"Yes, yes of course. Anything for you, Master, what do you need of me?"

Altair went behind the counter and pulled out a roll of parchment, fishing out his charcoal. He lit a candle and spread the parchment out over the chessboard. He questioned the beaten Thomas thoroughly about the layout of the Hospitalier fortress. The demoted assassin learned very quickly that civilians of any kind were denied entrance to the actual fortress, and the military personnel in that section of the building were thick as the flies on the many corpses outside. The only place that could be accessed was the hospital itself, where the rooms were filled to bursting with patients screaming and crying and moaning. Garnier was diligent in his duties, messengers often needed to call his name two or three times as he attended the sick before he would hear them.

While Altair was drawing out his map a thought occurred to him, a connection of the various things he had heard and seen over his investigation.

"Thomas," he asked, "Your duty was to ask patience of the crowds. Why is that?"

"It is because he denies patients, Master," Thomas said, his bruised eyes ugly in the candlelight. "There are too many sick here, but it is not them that he treats. I do not know where they come from, but his patients are not from here."

The abandoned _souk_ , heavily guarded. The people coming up and being escorted like prisoners to the hospital. The letter talking of supplies from Jerusalem. It all fell together in his head and Altair marveled. He pressed a hand to his eyes, containing his sudden shock as he realized exactly how Tamir, Garnier, and the man in Jerusalem were connected.

But what was it all _for_?

He sighed, unable to come up with an answer, not having enough information. Was this what Al Mualim meant? On previous assignments, did his knowing everything affect the mission somehow? Being told what to expect, was that a detriment somehow, did if affect him?

It was an hour after full dark that Jabal appeared in the Bureau, not from the roof, but from the trapdoor behind the counter. The wizened man spoke very deliberately in Arabic.

"I have secured a route out of the city," he said, looking to Altair and ignoring the person he was speaking about. "He will join a troupe of scholars as they make a pilgrimage."

"I understand," Altair replied. His thought of using scholars to gain entry was quickly crossed out of his plan, to use a resource too much would be detrimental, and Jabal had been more than clear about the position of the Bureau. Better to do everything himself and not put more strain on the respected old man. "I have taken what I need of him, he is yours."

"A burden quickly gotten rid of," Jabal replied.

"Master?" Thomas asked. "My freedom is at your mercy, but has the time come yet?"

"Tell him it will be tomorrow," Jabal said. "And that he should come with me. I don't want him here overnight."

Thomas was once again bowing in gratitude and appreciation, now calling Jabal master as well as he was helped down the trap door. Altair did not follow, instead looking over his map and making a few more notes and plans. It was nearly midnight when the _rafiq_ returned.

"Altair," he said, sitting tiredly on a stool. "How fair's your search for Garnier?"

"I know when and how to strike."

The old man barely looked up. "Then share your knowledge with me."

"He lives and works within the Order's hospital, northeast of here. Rumors speak of atrocities committed within its walls. It seems the good doctor enjoys experimenting on good citizens, most of them kidnapped and brought here from Jerusalem." That little facet of the operation would likely be dealt with soon.

"Clever," the _rafiq_ said, nodding. "By stealing his subjects from another city, he avoids arousing too much suspicion here. But back to the matter at hand: what is your plan?"

Altair pulled out his charcoal map. "Garnier keeps mainly to his quarters inside the hospital, though he leaves occasionally to inspect his patients. It's when he makes his rounds that I will strike. He is so dedicated to his work that he will be oblivious to the world around him, and there will be enough scholars inside that I will be almost invisible. The ensuing panic of the patients will make it difficult for the guards to give chase, and escape will be easy."

"It's clear you've given this some thought. I give you leave to go." The _rafiq_ reached down to pull out a specific book, opening it and pulling out a feather, placing it on the counter. Altair took it, contemplating it before putting it in his leather belt. Jabal's eyes turned hard as he said: "Remove this stain from Acre, Altair. Perhaps it will help cleanse your own. Rest here until you are ready to begin your mission."

"The garden, I assume?" he asked.

"So I can deny knowing you were ever here, if it came to it," the _rafiq_ said. "Go now."

"Yes."

Altair slept fitfully, his lack of knowledge starting to bother him. He dreamt of Kadar, and how knowing everything had somehow affected his death. Knowledge was a precious commodity, and though he did not doubt Al Mualim and the lesson hidden in this test, Altair could not see how ignorance could ever, _ever_ be an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something we forgot to mention in the last chapter but is worthy of note, the leader of the Saracen army will have two spellings in this fic. In Acre and with European people, including some modern assassins, will spell and pronounce the name as Saladin; while Saracens use the more technically correct Salah ad-Din (which is how it's spelled in the game). I can only assume that, because h's are sometimes silent in European languages, the h-sound was dropped and the name corrupted to Saladin. If anyone out there is more knowledgeable about this than our educated guess let us know.
> 
> And so the investigations begin - one of the things we had the most fun with was expanding the very rudimentary (and sometimes repetitive) investigations in the game. The informant missions, as you'll eventually discover over the course of this fic, we had the most fun with. In this chapter, the one that had the most expansion was obviously one of the pickpocketing missions.
> 
> That leads us to a note for terminology, we do use some Arabic words - as expected since they're used in the game. A souk is a marketplace - we hear this the most in Damascus, as it's the market capital of the Holy Land at the time. In the game, souk are identified as the buildings with pointed-arched roofs. How many of you looked at the abandoned one at Acre and wondered what it was for? Or why it was guarded at all end? We did. :) A madrasah is a university, or place of higher learning. More on that much later in the fic. A mosque is a place of Muslim worship.
> 
> Next Chapter: Death of a Doctor
> 
> As always, let us know what you think.


	7. Death of a Doctor

Dawn came; the city misty and Altair's white robes were almost invisible. He left, Jabal once more not seeing him off, and made his way northeast. The sun's heat was quick to burn off the mist, but Altair used what remained of it to scout the roofs near the fortress, trying to determine where the absent archer's post was. He saw it, and quickly descended back to the streets, milling about until the last of the fog had dissipated before darting up some scaffolding and ascending to the roofs of the Hospitalier stronghold. Within the hour he had made it to the highest roof and he found his first guard. The archer was pacing about a small parapet, and Altair soon fell in step behind him, waiting until the man was in the shadows before killing him and laying him against the wall. The dark uniforms of the Hostipalier knights would keep the body from being seen for several hours.

Altair performed similar acts with every archer he came across, only four or five, before he found the central courtyard of the fortress. It was midmorning now, the place was filled with scholars and patients both, there was so much white that Altair would be invisible, and he slowly climbed down in a shadowed corner, dropping the last dozen feet.

Two people startled, but he quickly disappeared in the crowd, the scholars unable to keep track of him. There was a well, and several priests in brown, scholars in white, and half dressed patients. Altair was ready to start his search when he heard a scream.

"Noo! Help! Help me! Help me!" A panicked man, clad only in white trousers, came barreling out into the courtyard, his face white with terror. "Please! You must help me!"

He had only just made it to the gate when two knights converged on him, grabbing him and shoving him to his knees, punching and beating him. Everyone was staring. Doors opened from somewhere and a weathered European stepped out, flanked by two knights. He wore a cross around his neck and a very bloody apron.

Garnier de Naplouse.

"Enough, my child!" he said to the knight currently punching the patient's back. He spoke English, but with a French accent. "I asked you to retrieve the patient, not to kill him." He glared at the two before focusing on the struggling man. He bent down to look at him at eye level.

"There, there," he cooed, "Everything will be al-"

"No, no!"

"Give me your hand," the Grandmaster said, offering his own.

"Don't touch me!" the patient said, struggling against the knights holding him down, trying to back away. "Not again!"

Garnier's voice was still gentle. "Cast out this fear, else I cannot help you."

"Help me?" the patient demanded, angry in spite of his terror. "Like you helped the _others_? You took their souls! I saw, I _saw_!" He stretched and strained against the guards, trying to yank an arm free. "But not mine!" he growled. "No! You'll not have mine!"

The warm face faded on the Hospitalier Grandmaster, and he stood, looking down to the captured patient, before viciously backhanding him. "Make humble yourself," Garnier said, and Altair remembered his Master telling him the same as he, too, strained against Abbas and Rauf. He stubbornly pushed the thought aside. There was no comparison. "You think this is pleasure? You think I _want_ to hurt you?" he demanded, his voice once again soft. "But you leave me no choice-"

The patient managed at last to yank an arm free, and his feet were soon under him as he made another panicked dash. The crowd ducked away from him, fearing to be struck or shoved. Altair held his ground, stayed invisible, and watched with narrow eyes.

"Every kind word, met by the back of his hand!" he shouted. The first guard swung in a wide circle against the patient, the other fumbling to grab hold of him again. Fevered eyes met the crowd, desperate for someone to hear him. Altair listened adamantly. "All lies and deception!" The second guard got his grip and the two yanked him back to Garnier's feet, but still the patient looked over his shoulder, throwing words to the crowd. "He won't be content until," he pulled, "all," he strained, "bow before him!"

And once again, he was on his knees in front of the Hospitalier Grandmaster.

"... You should not have done that," Garnier said, his voice and face clearly displeased, even disappointed. He turned away, beginning to walk back into the hospital. "Return him to his quarters," he ordered. "I'll be along once I've tended to the others."

The patient seemed determined, however. "You can't keep me here! I'll escape again!"

Garnier stopped, turning back. A soft smile was on his face. "No," he said, "You won't." His eyes flicked to the knights. "Break his legs. Both of them."

And without even questioning the order, one of the knights calmly, silently, walked up and kicked the patient's kneecap, shattering the bone and forcing it to bend backward. As the poor man shrieked in agony the other leg was pulled out so that it could be shattered in a similar matter. The two appendages quickly swelled and bruised, faster than Altair had ever seen before, they hung loosely on the ground, mutilated, useless; another cage added to the one he was already trapped in.

Such ruthlessness.

To add insult to injury, as the screaming patient was dragged away, Garnier gave a weary sigh and whispered, "I am so sorry, my child."

He looked to the crowd. "Have you nothing better to do?" he asked, and the priests and scholars all quickly dispersed.

Altair joined a group of scholars and mingled into the hospital. His nose was at once assaulted with scents: human excrement, sweat, vomit, blood. Also herbs, most notably hashish, the very plant used for incense in the Order. His ears filled with screams and moans, retching and crying. The massive room was filled to bursting with patients and guards. The patients had vague, glazed expressions as they walked about; unseeing, uncomprehending.

"How are you feeling?" Garnier's voice whispered. Altair stayed with the scholars; he did not want to make himself known too soon.

"What have you done... to me?" That was an Arabic accent, confirmation that these people likely came from Jerusalem.

"Ah, yes, the pain. It hurts at first; I won't lie. A small price to pay; in time, you'll agree."

"You... are... a monster."

"I've been called worse," Garnier chuckled.

A patient, mad and giggling, plowed blindly into the scholars, dispersing them. Altair himself was shoved, but he took it in stride, brushed himself off, and sat calmly on a bench. The guards did not give him a second look. His eyes took in the hospital; the hashish was mixed with another herb, powerful, sweet smelling. Altair did not wish to linger there; the scent was nauseating.

"This... this... My mind is clear. How? How did you do it?"

"I have my ways. The worst is over now."

"...So tired..."

"Rest, my child. It will only get better from here."

The words gave Altair pause as he saw Garnier round a corner and bend over another patient.

"Thank you... Thank you, for what you've done," one woman said, reaching up and clutching the Grandmaster's robes.

"It was my duty, my child. A new life awaits you."

How? How could they be grateful? Did they not hear the screams, smell the blood, see the agony? The torture? Altair did not understand, could not understand. He stood, determined to end it.

"My legs... you bastard! You broke both my legs!"

"I did it for your own good," Garnier said, looking over the man from the courtyard. "Pain brings about anger, but it also brings about clarity unlike any other. If you left before my work was complete, you would not see the healing I am bringing you towards."

"Bastard. Bastard!"

Garnier straightened, shaking his head. "There are so many children," he sighed. "I-"

Altair stabbed him from behind before lowering him to the ground.

"Let go your burden," he whispered.

"Ah," Garnier sighed. "I'll rest now, yes. The endless dream calls to me, but before I close my eyes, I must know: what will become of my children?"

"You mean the people made to suffer your cruel experiments?" Altair asked, disgusted with the man's delusion. "They'll be free now to return to their homes."

"Homes?" the Grandmaster declaimed. "What homes! The sewers? The brothels? The prisons that we dragged them from?"

"You took these people against their will!" Altair insisted.

"Yes, what little will there was for them to have. Are you really so naive? Do you appease a crying child, simply because he wails? 'But I want to play with fire, father.' What would you say? 'As you wish?' Ah, but then you'd answer for his burns."

It made no sense. None of it made sense. Altair felt claustrophobic, the overpowering scent of the incense affecting his mind. The analogy could not be followed.

"These are not children, but men and women, full grown."

"In body, perhaps," Garnier conceded, "but not in mind, which is the very damage I sought to repair. I admit, without the Piece of Eden - which you stole from us - my progress was slowed. But there are herbs, mixtures and extracts. My guards are proof of this: they were madmen before I found and freed them from the prisons of their own minds... And with my death, madmen they will be again." Tears leaked from the old man's eyes at the thought.

"You truly believe you were helping them," Altair stated, awestruck.

"It's not what I believe... it's what I know." He died.

There was nothing else to do after that, and so the assassin pulled out his feather and dipped it in Garnier's blood, pooling beneath him from the deathblow.

As he stood, the man with the broken legs started to scream, and the madmen around him did the same, racing back in terror, and the Hospitalier guards at last realized that their master had been murdered.

Altair leapt over a patient on a table and rolled under another, coming up in a dash. The guards were giving chase, but his whites only helped him as patients ran with him, as did scholars and priests. It was a mass exodus out of the hospital and the guards had no idea who was assassin and who was not. Altair dashed through the streets with the patients before ducking down an alley and sitting on a bench. He took a deep breath, the stench of the decay of the city somehow sweeter, cleaner, than the hospital. His mind felt clearer, and he heaved a sigh of relief that was quickly replaced with concern.

He remembered Massun, the traitor to Masyaf that opened the gates and nearly brought ruination to the Order. He, too, had been completely committed, to the Templars. Tamir, also, thought he served a nobler purpose. The unshakable belief bothered Altair. He originally thought such dedication existed nowhere but the Order, he not seen it elsewhere. How was it possible? Was Garnier helping those inside his hospital? He had spoken of curing them from their madness using herbs and extracts. Some of them were even grateful for the work he had done. He was a madman and a butcher. How was it those men found good inside a man who was clearly intent on evil? What was it that Altair failed to see?

The thoughts troubled him all the way through the streets as he blended from one crowd to the next; he route was circuitous not because of need but because of his thoughts, and it was with a heavy mind that he at last entered the Bureau, a little after noon.

The _rafiq_ was once again looking through a text.

"What news, Altair?" he asked, not even bothering to look up.

Altair retrieved the bloody feather. "...Garnier is dead," he said.

"Then you should return to Masyaf with news of your victory." Jabal offered, pulling out a book to record the success.

"... There is something else," Altair said.

"Speak it then."

Altair hesitated, uncertain if it was something to bring up to the weary _rafiq_.

"Or would you have me read your mind?" Jabal said, his eyes narrowing.

Altair plunged forward. "What do you think he wanted from these people? That he would keep them and experiment on them as he did?"

"Yours is not to _ask_ , but _act_ , Altair," the _rafiq_ said, brushing the question aside. "It doesn't matter what he did or why, only that he's dead."

"But Garnier seemed to believe he was helping these people," Altair pressed, unable to let go of that one thought.

"Is that what you saw?" Jabal asked.

"... No." Altair answered, feeling slightly shamed. "What I saw was not a place of healing, but of pain."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"I... I don't know. Forget I spoke of it."

"I already have."

But Altair did not. It bothered him all the way home to Masyaf.

* * *

Al Mualim was speaking with a scholar as Altair entered. The demoted assassin waited patiently for his turn.

"Have you news for me, Altair?" Al Mualim asked when he was done, dismissing the other man.

"Garnier de Naplouse is dead."

"Excellent!" Al Mualim said with an expansive air. "We could not have hoped for a more agreeable outcome."

"And yet..." Altair started before stopping himself. His thoughts were likely meaningless.

"What is it?" Al Mualim prompted, and the demoted assassin felt relief. His beloved teacher would always listen to his thoughts, however trivial or thoughtful, and always treated them seriously. Altair felt comfortable in speaking his mind to Al Mualim as he did with no one else.

"The doctor insisted his work was noble, and looking back those who were supposedly his captives seemed grateful to the man. Not all of them but enough to make me wonder... How did he manage to turn enemy into friend?" Even now it still bothered him.

"Leaders will always find ways to make others obey them," the Master said easily, "and that it what makes them leaders. When words fail they turn to coin; when that won't do, they resort to baser things: bribes, threats, and other types of trickery. ... There are plants, Altair, herbs and opiates from distant lands that can cause a man to take leave of his senses. So great are the pleasures it brings, men may even become enslaved by it."

Altair remembered the overpowering smells of the hospital. "You think these men were drugged then? Poisoned?" Only cowards and usurpers would reduce themselves to such vile tactics. The Order would never sink that low.

"Yes, if it truly was as you describe it."

Silence stretched out between them, Altair still thinking. "Herbs. This seems a strange method of control."

"Our enemies have accused me of the same."

"The promise of 'paradise.' "

"They think there is a garden overflowing with women and pleasure, that I drug you as Garnier did his men, and tempt you with its rewards."

"They do not know the truth of it," Altair growled. The garden, there were but a handful of women there; they were not there to tempt but to console. Boys and men both went there to cry or seek comfort after the death of family or a gruesome assignment. Some would offer their bodies, but more often they offered their ears. That others would think otherwise was a tragedy, such thoughts need be corrected!

"Which is how it must be," Al Mualim said in direct contradiction to Altair's thoughts.

"But if they knew the truth of it, that all we seek is peace..." Altair said, certain his thoughts were correct. Knowledge was such a valuable asset; it made a man wise.

"Then they would not fear us, and we would have no hold over them," Al Mualim said. He turned and walked to the window. "Go. It is time you continued with your work. Another rank is restored to you, as is a piece of your equipment. We'll speak again when the next has fallen."

Altair took his second belt and his throwing knives, fitting them easily about his waist. He would need these in Jerusalem. He reflected on what he learned, that Al Mualim's means of controlling others was through fear.

"Another thing, Altair," Al Mualim said just as he turned to leave. "There is a new _dai_ in charge of Jerusalem."

"Master?"

"Baasir is dead."

It was a blow to his gut.

But Al Mualim was not finished.

"He died giving you and Malik time to ride here. Think on that as you ride to your next target, Talal."

* * *

Desmond blinked in the fog before the fog faded and the visor of the Animus retracted. Sitting up, he looked around before easily sliding off the machine to stretch his back.

"If you're happy now, Miss Stillman," Vidic said sourly.

"I am," Lucy replied with a gentle smile. Turning, her smile remained bright. "Now Desmond, no matter what Dr. Vidic says, you don't get into the Animus until I come back."

"Back?" Desmond replied curiously.

Lucy nodded. "I'm heading to my lunch break. Your lunch should be here soon."

He shrugged. "Well, enjoy," he offered.

"Thanks," she replied, before turning and heading out. Desmond appreciated the view for a moment before turning to his current warden. "Let me guess," he said amicably. "She wouldn't go on a lunch break unless I got one too."

Vidic spared a quick glare before ignoring him completely and working on his computer.

Desmond held in a chuckle before heading through his room to the bathroom to alleviate a few things. Once finished and washed up, he walked back to the large Animus lab and glanced at the plush chairs. No sign of lunch for him yet. With nothing to do and no one (pleasant) to talk to, Desmond just shrugged to himself and set off at a quick walk around the perimeter of the lab. He kept his stride strong and swift with his arms swinging as he made circuit after circuit, avoiding Vidic's throne steps above the rest of the lab.

"Mr. Miles, _what are you doing_?" Vi _dick_ shouted after Desmond's fifth pass.

"You won't let me take my morning jog," was his only response, and tallied a victory in the Annoy Vidic column. Plus he'd spent the past two days strapped to the Animus and his limbs were getting itchy for some sort of exercise. The old adage of a "body in motion stays in motion" and a "body at rest stays at rest" was very true. If Desmond wasn't careful, lethargy would settle in and he wouldn't be in any condition to escape when the opportunity presented itself.

He checked his heart rate after a dozen circuits to find it raised and steady as he made another round. He wasn't working up a sweat, not with the freezing air pouring out by each set of computer banks, but it would burn the calories. Vidic was still glaring at him every now and then, particularly when Desmond walked by, but Desmond could have cared less.

It wasn't the same as his usual five-mile jog, and there was a good dose of boredom as he passed the same walls every time, but he let his mind enter a place of rest that he often found when out jogging. It was clear and unworried by any of the pressing concerns that were currently weighing him down in his predicament. No plans for escape, no wondering if Abstergo had found _him_ then they might have found his parents and were they okay, no trying to goad Vidic into gloating out details and no concern if Lucy was going too far for him or if he should ask for more. Just a clear mind and the steady beat of his own heart.

His _own_ heart, not that of his long-dead ancestor that beat the same notes when running from guards or climbing high towers.

Desmond was himself.

Not Altair ibn La-Ahad, demoted assassin working to get his honor back.

Just Desmond.

And Desmond Miles was enough.

The walk was good and he was aware, if not consciously, of a guard of some sort coming in with a lunch tray that was placed on one of the well-cushioned seats before leaving. Desmond ignored it. He'd have it once Lucy came back, since he could eat quickly and neatly and it would keep him out of Frankenstein's machine for a few minutes more.

For now, he was just walking.

Vidic tried to interrupt him only once. Shortly after the food arrived, the old geezer seemed to have had enough of Desmond just walking in circles. So the mad scientist actually deemed it necessary to regain control for that damn god-complex of his, and get off of his damn throne and mingle in the lower areas of his kingdom. Vidic tried to grab Desmond's arm as he walked by, but Desmond just kept his stride going strong and steady.

"That is _enough_ , Mr. Miles," Vidic yelled as Desmond slipped easily through his fingers. "Sit down and eat your lunch."

Desmond shot back, "I haven't even reached a mile yet."

" _Mr. Miles_!" Vidic clearly didn't have much patience. That made another victory in the Annoy Vidic column.

Then Desmond's brain caught up with him. The clarity of it suddenly _focused_ and Desmond realized that this was a perfect opportunity to lift Vidics access pen. When the old bastard made another grab for it, Desmond could lift it as he walked away; slide it into his sleeve or something.

Too bad Desmond didn't get a chance. The door opened as Desmond walked by the observation window and Lucy came in, looking better for having gotten something to eat. "I'm back," she said in greeting, before blinking at Desmond walking in circles and Vidic looking grumpy.

There was a distinct smile trying to tug at her lips as Desmond breezed by her and started another loop.

"Should I come back later?" she asked, amusement just barely kept out of her voice, but her eyes sparkled in mirth.

"Sure thing," Desmond replied. "I still got four miles and change to get through."

That snort was certainly _not_ a giggle. Nope, not at all.

Lucy looked to Vidic.

The old bastard just threw his hands up and went back to his desk. "Just get him back in the Animus," he growled.

Desmond finished another round, going by the observation window before turning into his room and going to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. Coming back to the lab, at a more normal pace, he sat right on the floor to stretch.

Lucy's shoulders were shaking and a hand was covering her face as she sat in the plush chair not occupied by the untouched food tray.

He smiled cheekily at her, but focused on his stretches.

"Desmond," she said, once she'd gotten control again. "We have a lot of work to do."

"Yup."

"Please, eat your lunch so we can get back to all that work."

"Just a second," Desmond replied, pushing further into his last stretch. As he expected, Lucy had given him just enough time for the minimum stretches needed before poking him into work.

Getting up, he picked up his lunch tray and sat down on the seat before digging in with his usual neat speed. No one offered any conversation, but that was fine. Desmond counted the whole "lunch hour" as a resounding a success. If for no other reason than getting a laugh out of Lucy. Laughter kept one sane after all.

"Let's get started," Lucy said once Desmond finished his glass of water.

He nodded and went back to the Animus. As always, there was an instinctual hesitation before sitting on the machine and laying back. The visor came over his eyes and Desmond settled into a room of white fog and floating chemistry.

Desmond looked at the throwing knives that his many-greats-grandfather had and pulled one out. The balance felt superb, and he tossed one around in practices that he hadn't done since he'd left the Farm. Granted, the knives he'd practiced with were greater in variety, from switchblades to kitchen knives, to sturdier military issue, Desmond was still pleased with how they felt and held in his hands. Even the engravings added to their perfection and in the tiniest back corner of his mind, he wished he had a set like this.

The fog finally faded and Desmond was once again in Masyaf.

He didn't bother going up to see the old Teacher, and instead headed down to the stables. The last time Desmond was here, he'd been told where to go, so he knew the only way he'd fall back in synch was to get to the highly-distorted-distant Jerusalem. He pic _ked a black horse, neither for the poor or the ri_ ch, and brushed it down, saddled, and mounted. And, for the third time, he rode down the mountain of Masyaf at a steady trot. He passed under the broken down arches and started down the trail that Assassin's still guarded before pausing at the watchtower.

When in Acre, his ancestor had climbed every high point he could in order to draw out maps of the area so that he knew where all the back alleys and hide spots were. Desmond wondered if he should be doing the same.

"Ah, what the hell," he muttered. Dismounting, he circled around the watchtower before his eyes spotted a relatively straight line going up to the top. It was an easy climb; the handholds and footholds he used were good and thick, though he somehow knew that his many-greats-grandfather didn't need anything so thick when he ascended something.

There was a slight breeze that moved his coattails and once Desmond had to stop and kick them out of the way before he stepped on them. But when he was at the top, Desmond expected to just pull out his map and draw but instead, nostalgia hit him full force because he wat _ched seven-year-old Altair helping up seven-year-old Malik. They were both at the top and looking at the mountains around them in wonder. Far below, a caravan could be seen starting the climb up the base of the mountain. Altair looked to Malik and once they both locked eyes, they fell back in hysterical and childish giggles._

_"I_ told _you," Altair said between laughs._

_Malik just nods enthusiastically. "We_ have _to bring Kadar up here once he can climb!"_

_They shook hands in agreement before looking out once more with identically wide grins._

_"A-Sayf! La-Ahad!" a voice cracked._

_All laughter ceased as both looked down to see the gray_ tangelmust _of the journeyman they had eluded._

_"Get down here this_ instant _!"_

_Both boys gave an identical whine. "Awww."_

_"_ Now _!"_

_They both went to climb over the side and begin their careful descent, but the journeyman would have none of that._

_"No, you little miscreants," the journeyman said firmly. "You_ jump _from there into the cart of hay. The two of you are tiny enough that there_ shouldn't _be any injury." The journeyman paused. "If you do it right."_

_They looked at each other, suddenly nervous. Neither of them had ever leapt from such a great height before! That was scary!_

_"Al Mualim wishes to speak to the both of you. So you'd best hurry."_

_All at once the fun and adventure of sneaking out of Masyaf and climbing the watchtower was gone. Instead was the cold realization that their explorations would disappoint the Teacher. Altair stepped forward. "Don't blame Malik!" he called down. "It was my idea!"_

_"And yet he is there with you!" the journeyman called back._

_"Altair, you fool! Don't-"_

_Malik's words got no further. Altair ignored him and took a running leap off the watchtower, angling his fall as he was taught and twisting so that he didn't land wrongly. The hay was so_ ft and Desmond blinked, looking up through the hay that had fell around him and obscured him.

" _Desmond? Are you alright?_ " Lucy asked.

"I, uh..." Desmond hesitated, moving his limbs clad in the avatar of his ancestor, and making sure that _he_ was the one moving them instead of the child he'd just seen and _been_. "Yeah, I'm fine."

" _What just happened there, Mr. Miles?_ "

Desmond slid out of the hay and hopped over the edge of the cart, bits of the straw trailing behind him. "Nothing," he replied. It seemed that whatever they were using to monitor Desmond hadn't picked up on that little memory; out-of-synch as it was with the larger timeline he was slogging through.

" _Come now, Mr. Miles,_ " Vidic's smarmy voice said coyly. " _Something clearly happened as your synchronization ratio with your ancestor just went up._ "

"It's... I what?" He was _more_ in synch with that Altair-guy, but he _wasn't_ in a memory?

" _Well? What happened?_ "

"... Nostalgia," Desmond replied. "Very strong nostalgia." And that was all he'd say on the subject. He didn't want to talk about out-of-synch memories. He didn't want to talk about the realization that Altair had been a smiling, happy, determined child. He didn't want to talk about how Altair had been correct, that they had been good friends as children in a bickering-rivalry sort of way, and that it wasn't Malik who had changed when they met under Solomon's Temple, but Altair after more pain than a man should have to deal with in the span of a short time.

Desmond didn't want to talk about such things that even _he_ didn't have the right to know. Because such feelings and thoughts belonged to the person that originated them and should only be shared if that person so chose. It was like reading a diary one wasn't supposed to.

He shuddered.

" _Well, Mr. Miles, if climbing these watchtowers increased your synchronization, then I'd recommend you should climb some more. More synchronization should get us through these memories faster._ "

"Yeah, yeah," Desmond muttered. His horse came up to him and he patted the neck, taking comfort in the fact that the animal seemed loyal. Or at least the construct of it did. So he let out a small sigh and mounted.

"Map, Kingdom," he said quietly. A soft rustle in his pack and Desmond pulled out a map and blinked at it. The map was filled in. Not completely, but enough that he paused to really study it.

Then he looked up at the sky. "The map _finally_ fills in and all it gives me is an _outline_?"

He heard Lucy's light chuckle and Vidic's disgruntled growl.

Desmond let himself grin before kicking his heals into the horse's flank and riding on. When he got to the split in the path, he chose the one that went south to Acre, since geographically, that was the more accurate way to get to Jerusalem.

The horse easily maintained a steady trot southward. The path split briefly into what appeared to be parallel paths. Desmond chose one more or less random at and kept the steady pace. As he expected, the path rejoined again and Desmond spied another watchtower. This one, however was guarded as Desmond reigned up. Guarded by the whites and reds of King Richard's men. Desmond didn't particularly want to get into a fight. He had no idea how to use the blades he had on him aside from the throwing knives and that wouldn't do any good for close quarters.

Well, the horse wouldn't do any good in close quarters.

Desmond dismounted and kept as close to the wall of the mountain as he could, edging his way around the tower to see if there was a way to clim _b, he clasped his hands in prayer, looking like a quiet scholar who needed a moment of reflection and contemplation until he reached the un_ guarded side. Desmond could easily see the line up the watchtower and set about climbing like he had at Masyaf. Reaching the top, he again felt nostalgia, though not as strong as the previous watchtower, as a _n eighteen-year-old Altair sat above the small docks, sketching maps and listening to the flow of languag_ es that were all European.

Looking back down, Desmond wasn't sure he wanted to climb back down with all those soldiers staring at him. He did see a haystack, just below a small cliff to one side and hesitated. He'd seen his ancestor jump off many a high structure and he knew that it was within his capabilities. As real as the sound of insects and smell of the water and feel of the breeze were, this place _wasn't_ and couldn't hurt him.

One giant breath and Desmond jumped off his perch, hearing an eagle screech as the wind yelled in his ears and then there was a soft sound of hay and Desmond let out his breath.

That was kinda fun actually. For one brief moment it reminded him of his motorcycle.

He lay there for a bit, just to get his racing heart back under control when he heard the neigh of his horse.

Desmond slid out of the hay and mounted, following the path down into the small town. The path curved by the docks where he spied several of King Richard's guards keeping sharp watch and Desmond nudged his horse a little faster as he climbed back uphill through the layers of the town.

Once out of the small town, he slowed to a steady trot once more and kept heading south. The path split once again, with some sort of partially build bridge overhead and Desmond went the way that _didn't_ have the Templar that chased after him last time. There were still a lot of Richard's men that glared at him suspiciously, but Desmond just kept at a slow trot, occasionally slowing to even a walk and kept his head down praying that no one decided oh-that's-an-assassin! and start chasing him.

The roads rejoined at a watchtower that had the spiked log walls of ancient and quickly-made fortifications that reminded Desmond more of the Old West than the Crusades. And there were a lot of guards. Desmond slowed to a walk and went as slowly and delicately as he could, all but mentally shouting _Don't see me!_ as he quietly went through the fortifications. The guards stared stonily ahead, not giving him even a second glance.

Desmond kept a wide berth of the archery towers and continued down the road, noting he was seeing more European travelers than Saracen. The road also showed signs of battle as he kept plodding along. Trees snapped by siege engines, overturned carts, and the patrols of knights kept Desmond alert and cautious.

Eventually the road opened to a ruined settlement with another watchtower surrounded by fortifications and Richard's men. Desmond tried to be slow and invisible, but an arrow whipped by his hood and suddenly all the guards were around him. He kicked his heels and the horse started to gallop, but suddenly there was a hand around his ankle and Desmond was down on the ground.

"Heathen! I'll get you!"

Arrows were raining down, knights were surrounding him, and his horse was just outside the forming circle, pawing at the ground and waiting.

"Oh _hell_ ," Desmond growled. He ducked and dodged as much as he could as he tried to slip through the knights to get to his horse. He needed _speed_ now and he had the basics of fighting, but not with _blades_ for God's sake! A knight grabbed him and threw him. Desmond rolled with it, thankful for what he knew from his training as a kid, and easily rolled away.

_Almost there_... He ducked under another swing from a sword and took off, considered the watchtower a lost cause here, and leapt onto the horse, taking off at a full gallop uphill.

He didn't slow down until his heart did and finally gave his horse a rest by settling into a canter. Of course, Desmond's luck couldn't hold. Within no time flat, a Templar was yelling at him and chasing after him and Desmond was off at a full gallop once again. Any curses he offered about this were met with Vidic's disembodied laughter.

As he galloped downhill, he did note that the trees he was speeding by looked healthier and weren't damaged by signs of battle. He took this as a good sign that he was heading into Saracen territory, so that he wouldn't have to worry about finding platoons of guards or knights ready to slaughter him because he looked like a long-dead ancestor. He saw a set of ruins ahead and slowed, finally believing himself safe. And, even though it was a construct and the horse likely didn't feel anything, Desmond got off and took the reins to guide the animal instead of riding it. He'd been at full gallop for a few hours now and the animal needed rest.

Desmond fruitlessly searched his pouches to see if there was any feed for the horse, but just kept walking. In front of the ruins were the dead bodies of several knights and Desmond tried not to st _are, there were Saracen archers behind those broken stone walls. Best to stay to the r_ oad and mind his own business.

He walked his horse uphill again, going oh-so-slowly almost an hour later when he spied an archery tower. He didn't mount, instead keeping his horse between him and the sharp-eyed archer and prayed really hard that no arrows came at him again.

Past the archery tower, it was downhill and Desmond eventually mounted once more and took off at a trot. The scenery was more of the same and Desmond couldn't help but wonder how anyone could know where they were at any one time. But then, the construct didn't have anything even close to correct placement or distances, so he chalked it up to computer error.

Desmond slowed again when he saw a patrol of Saracens with blades out and waited for them to go up a path before he took the more southern path away from them. The road split again and Desmond stayed on the well-worn road where there were more and more Muslims walking. There were still Saracen guards, but they paid him no mind as he trotted through as long as he avoided the people. He passed under a set of arches and was again in the fog room.

" _Good job, Desmond. We can build Jerusalem from here,_ " Lucy said as he waited in the fog.

"Uh-huh," Desmond replied. He pulled out his map of the Kingdom and was at least pleased to note that it was a bit more filled in. He had a better idea of the paths and now that he had a basis he could sort of see in the fogged areas where there might be other paths he couldn't distinguish before.

Of course, the map was still useless since it was just an outline of areas he could reach.

But before he could get further in these thoughts, Desmond was back on his horse, trotting to the side of a throng of people as he looked out over the expanse of Jerusalem. Tall and glittering was a golden dome of some sort that Desmond felt was famous, but he couldn't place it at all.

He started downhill, making sure to keep a wide berth of the blank-eyed NPCs and sticking to the grass. He spotted a small Saracen camp and dismounted to walk quietly by as he made his way to the tall gate that lead in to the Holy City of many different religions. His eyes were already seeing a path he could take from a short wall, but as he approached it, Desmond realized it was a wall of a gra _veyard. He wondered if Kadar had been buried there..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What to say about this chapter...
> 
> The breaking of the legs was one of the most painful things in the game to watch as those poor appendages flop around like rubber. I wince just thinking about it.
> 
> One of the possible origins for the word "assassin" is the word "hashashin," a derivative of the word hashish, which is a plant. It was believed that young boys just entering puberty would inhale the stuff and, in a drugged high, be brought to a beautiful garden and given the chance to bed any and all of the girls there. We find it interesting to note that the game doesn't use the word "hashashin", but rather "assasyun" - which according to another author's Author's Notes, means "pillars of the faith." Can we find that author to point it out? No, of course not, but we think it's an important distinction - the assassin's don't want to be known for a plant but rather their belief of nothing is true and everything is permitted. In honor of "hashashin," however, and the fact that Al Mualim does have a garden in the back of his keep in the game, we decided they used diluted hashish as incense, perhaps to maintain focus and the garden as a soothing place for weary warriors. It seems more in keeping with the kind of ideal that the assassins of the game strive for. Garnier, too, is using a more concentrated hashish and probably a few opiates from the east for his experimentation.
> 
> While it's true that there are no breaks during the Acre and Jerusalem assassinations at this stage, Desmond has to eat at some point, and Lucy is trying to stall as much as she can regardless. Besides, the idea of doing whatever he can to piss off Vidic is perennially entertaining. :D We also like the idea of what we've been calling "side-synching," where Desmond is Altair for only a few moments and visa versa.
> 
> We like Jabal. He's so busy with his own problems he could care less about Altair's, but at the same time, he understands what the poor assassin is going through and lets him find his way. Altair is starting to change, too, and just knowing what he turns into by the end of the game makes us grin with anticipation.
> 
> Next Chapter: Jerusalem. And Malik. We're not going to have fun with this, nope, none whatsoever (knowing laughter).


	8. City of Graveyards

Altair stood at the entrance of the graveyard, staring at stone coffins and edifices. Each one had a funeral, each one a procession, each one a ceremony. Altair had only been to a funeral once. He had been but a boy, thirteen, just before his apprenticeship to Jerusalem. All he really remembered was thinking it a waste of time - what was the point of getting together for someone who was dead? They were long gone, and there was hardly any "afterlife" those stupid religions proclaimed where the dead could watch, and to a young Altair's mind it was utterly pointless. It wasn't long before he had snuck away to the empty training ring. There were more important things to do, he had thought.

A dozen years later, the demoted assassin stared at the graves, leaning against the frame of the gate, watched a man in white standing at a grave and praying, and he wondered if his childish notions weren't wrong. Oh, the dead were still dead, but perhaps the funerals were for the living: a chance for friends and family to remember, and to mourn, and to grieve.

There were many to mourn. Altair wished he didn't have to return to this city, to Jerusalem. The taste was bittersweet in his mouth, and he feared that if he kept coming back it would only ever be bitter. It had been bad enough when he had only Adha's kidnapping. Now Altair's eyes saw young Kadar, wide-eyed and so eager to learn. He saw Baasir, patiently training apprentices and advising journeymen, the words of praise he always showered upon Altair.

He wondered where the bodies were. Kadar may well still be in the buried temple, rotting and alone. Baasir, Altair didn't even know the circumstances of his mentor's death. He could be anywhere. For some reason that bothered Altair. Bodies meant nothing to the assassin, but _these_ bodies were important, and not even knowing where they were... it upset him. The emotion was sudden and unexpected, Altair didn't know how to react to it, and the energy of it translated to his legs, pushing him into the cemetery. He did not know what to do with it.

Towards the back, behind an obelisk, Altair found four men, one a city guard, accosting some kind of scholar. "Teach your blasphemy somewhere else!" one of them shouted.

"Please, I'm not here to teach, my brother-"

"Filthy lies, you're not welcome here!"

It had nothing to do with Altair. It did not affect him. But his turbulent emotions made him rash, and he knew the fight would be simple, and he rationalized that it would do him good. Boldly, Altair marched up to the city guard, guarding against intruders such as the assassin. Before the guard could tell him off Altair had grabbed the hand holding the sword to stay it as he thrust his hidden blade deep into the man's gut. He let loose a gurgled groan of surprise that went unnoticed by his compatriots, so busy were they in harassing the scholar. The second man was trying to hold the scholar down, and Altair quickly grabbed a shoulder, holding the miscreant in place to shove his blade into the neck. The pierce was imprecise - a testament to his state of mind - and blood spurted out.

"How dare you!" One of the remaining cried out. There were but two men now, and as they hastily made for their swords Altair knew that this would not satisfy him. The third was felled with his short sword, a quick unhindered slash to the neck. The last made a wild swing, but Altair ducked under it, stepping into his opponent's zone and punching the man in the gut with such savagery the man flew back, stumbling and desperate for air. Altair did not wait, only straddled the man and plunged his blade into the neck, an instant kill. Blood flew everywhere, and Altair stabbed again, looking for something, expecting some kind of feeling, but it did not come. He stabbed again, but the short sword caught in the bone because of his clumsy action, and his vision blurred in frustration. Energy seeped out of him, and he slumped, feeling hollow.

He did not know how long he sat there, but duty finally settled into his mind: he had to go to the Bureau and meet the new _dai_. With a deep breath he forced himself to get up. Altair put a boot to the corpse's shoulder blade and slowly worked the short sword out of the bone, cleaning it on his red sash before sheathing it. His uniform was spattered with red; he looked a mess.

To his shock Altair saw that the scholar was still there, staring at him. The man also looked worse for wear, his face swollen and bloody.

Altair felt embarrassed the scholar had seen such clumsy work, worse that his breakdown was witnessed. Weakness should not be shown, and the four-man slaughter had been just that: weakness. His emotions had overtaken him, just as they had with...

... with de Sable.

Altair had been so desperate to kill the Master of the Templars, so eager to fill the pain left from Adha. It had been nothing more than weakness. Weakness that had cost Kadar his life, Malik his arm, and Altair his friendship. Weakness that lead to the Templars attacking Masyaf. And worse, weakness that brought disappointment to the Master, the one man he looked up to and believed in. It was entirely his fault, and his refusal to admit it was yet another weakness.

His vision blurred, and he looked away from the scholar. "I'm sorry," he whispered, though to whom he did not know.

A hand touched his shoulder and Altair stiffened, blinking his eyes.

"One should not be sorry for saving another's life," the older man said, his face compassionate even through the bruises.

Altair could think of nothing to say. Realization weighed heavily on him, it all felt surreal.

"Come," the old man said. "You have shown me great kindness by saving my life, the least I can do is return the favor in some way. My sons wait outside."

Numb and unable to find the strength to resist, Altair could only follow. Five men stood at the gate, slightly anxious. "Did you find him?" one asked. "Was Uncle buried there?"

"No," the scholar said, "I found no plate with his name, but fear not, there are still three more graveyards left."

"I cannot believe the city guards!" another son said. "They say only that he is dead and buried, but neglect to tell us where! And now they beat you for looking!"

"We cannot change the past," the scholar said. "Coming here was a blessing, though, for I have met this man, and he saved my life."

Five sets of eyes locked onto Altair, and the attention made the white shadow distinctly uncomfortable. He stepped back; instinctively ready to run. Instead, hands clapped his back and shoulders, men offering praise and thanks and gratitude and platitudes. It only made Altair _more_ uncomfortable; he did not know how to react or what to say. The family took this as humility, and piled more kind words onto him.

"Tell me," the old scholar said. "Who have you lost to make you react so violently to tragedy around you?"

Altair knew he could not stay silent and tongue-tied forever, and with effort he managed to simply say, "... too many."

"Truer words were never spoken," the scholar said. "My brother died this spring. He had been working in an underground mine, they said, when it collapsed on him."

Altair froze, looking at the scholar, his age, his weathered features, his height. There was no way... was there? Altair could not picture him, the old man in the mine was utterly forgettable, he had thought nothing of it...

"He was a dreamer, my brother," the old man said. "He could never hold a job for too long for his mind was always elsewhere, in the skies and the clouds. When we heard he had been killed," Altair stiffened, "we were all very upset. But now he is in the clouds he so loved. Oh, he must have hated working in that mine." The old man smiled, tight and sad and relieved all at the same time. "But listen to me prattle on, I insist that you came to my home where I can help clean you up. It is the least I can do, and it is just inside the gate. It is very convenient that I live near where I work. My sons, on the other hand, they are all merchants. I don't know where they got it from."

"From you toiling away at scrolls and not getting paid enough for it," one said, grinning at an old in-joke.

"Yes, yes," the scholar said. "Come, come, let's get you home. I live just inside the gate."

The seven of them made for a large party, and the sons were distinctly protective of their beaten father and the bloody Altair, but the guards let them pass through the Lion's Gate, and within ten minutes they were past the guards and in Jerusalem proper. Altair didn't even have time to think about all his memories of this square when he heard the name of his target.

"Protect the ones you love! Talal provides!"

Altair paused, looking across the square. Beyond the pool was a town crier shouting at the head of St. Ann's Church. The demoted assassin clenched his fists.

"Pay that miscreant no mind," the scholar said. "He preaches every day in different parts of the city. For the last two weeks his words are the same but his offer is fickle. My oldest here," he said, gesturing to one of his sons, "Went to him for the work he offered, and was turned down, yet another merchant he was able to make an offer to, and an unsavory merchant he was. A man of your honor will find no opportunity with him."

With some prodding, Altair was lead across the square into a small courtyard. At the bench an elderly woman sat. She quickly stood upon seeing the group enter. "They beat you!" she cried, rushing to the bruised scholar.

"No, no," the scholar said, "They were to kill me, they thought I was a Christian. But this man, he saved my life. Friend, this is my wife."

"Oh, bless you, stranger! Bless you," she said, bowing her head several times. "They beat you too, it seems, come inside and I will tend to you."

The kindness seemed too much for Altair, and he started to back out of the courtyard. "I hardly-" he started but was quickly cut off.

"No, no," the wife said, "As bloody as you are you will have the guards following your every step of your journey, let me clean your clothes and bandage your wounds."

"What about me, dear wife?" the scholar asked, looking crestfallen.

" _You_ can wait until our guest is tended," she said firmly. All five sons laughed.

"We are back to work, father," the oldest son said. "Friend, if ever you've need of us, we all work at the _souk_ south of that Christian church. We will drop anything to help the man who saved our father. I'm certain Uncle would be proud of you."

Shame filled Altair, and he could say nothing as the five departed, and the wife slowly coaxed him out of his blood stained clothes to have them washed. The blood was still fresh, it rinsed out quickly, but Altair could not leave as the wife insisted on giving them time to dry and the scholar insisted on engaging him in conversation, asking after his savior and looking for some way to return the favor.

"Tell me, friend, what brings you to Jerusalem?"

"... Work."

"Truly? Work can be had here aplenty at the Temple Mount. I work at the Dome of the Rock, and we are always looking for messengers."

"No, you misunderstand," Altair said, still uncomfortable, still uncertain what to say. "I have work. I am on assignment."

"You are lucky then, work in the city has been dwindling of late. The people are nervous here; tension is high with the infidels so close at Acre. I hear Richard and his troops have begun their march south to Jaffa. Rumors of the atrocities at Acre have already run rampant here, and we are terrified sheep at the idea of Christians being in charge of the city. It would be a tragedy. The call the fight a Crusade, bah! A crusade for what? Ignorance? Violence? No, madness!"

"Politics again, husband," the wife admonished, taking a damp cloth and wiping his face. He reeled back.

"That stings, woman!" She said nothing, ducking to another room for medicinal herbs. "Anyway, I will talk you ear off if you give me the opportunity. Where will your work take you?"

Altair hesitated. He did not want to give away too much, but cover stories were necessary on occasion. "I... word has reached of the death of a weaver, and my Master sent me to meet his knew replacement, establish a relationship with him."

The old man's face frowned slightly, rubbing his beard in thought. "Yes, I think I know who you mean. Southwest of here near the cotton market. He made lovely carpets, far too expensive for me, but I think my youngest commissioned him once. You say he is dead?"

"...Yes." The word pained the demoted assassin.

"That is terrible news," the scholar said, shaking his head. "We had thought he had disappeared like the others."

"... Others?"

The old man waved it off. "I said before, tensions are high here in the city. People are disappearing left and right, fleeing to family in other cities, some being arrested and executed, some just disappear off the street. Our population is dwindling. But this does not help you. I did not know the shop had been repurposed - but things happen quickly sometimes, as was the case of my poor brother." Altair winced, and his hood was nowhere to hide it. The scholar saw it, frowned. "I am sorry," he said, "Your losses must still be very recent, that was inconsiderate of me. Well," he added expansively, putting his hands on his knees to hoist himself up, "in this heat your clothes must be dry, and I've held you up long enough; I'll not keep you longer."

The wife returned with the herbs and the clothes, Altair dressed quickly and efficiently. It was already late afternoon, the sun was lower in the sky than the assassin wanted, and yet the scholar was not done with him, offering him coin to help him on his way. "I don't now how long you'll be in the city, but my door is always open to you," he said.

Altair said nothing, stiffly walking away.

The herald was still in front of St. Ann's, and Altair was but a white shadow in the crowd, listening to the crier as he made his speeches. His mind was only half working, however, the rest of it drifting away like dust on a road. The miner he had killed, had it been the scholar's brother? There was no way of knowing, but Altair had never thought of a kill like that, as a _person_ , with family that would mourn his loss. Such thoughts were the undoing of an assassin; worrying over those left behind was weakness, cowardice that stilled a blade when it was most needed. A target was only a target, a straw dummy that happened to have blood and the capacity to run, to be left to rot in favor of the escape. How many had Altair killed that had such families?

He shook his head to the thought. Al Mualim would not choose the death of a kind person, one that helped a stranger on the street, or the good Samaritan that Christians talked about. But... Garnier de Naplouse, he sincerely thought he was helping his patients, and many of them believed the same. What did that mean? Significance came from context, Al Mualim said. Using that logic, then perhaps, in a different context, the men he killed were not bad men? Perhaps, in a different context, the significance of his kills changed? Did Garnier have family? Tamir? Were they kind, like the scholar was, and mourn their deaths?

Altair rubbed his forehead. Such thoughts ran him in circles and only made him doubt himself. He could not afford that, not now when he needed to redeem himself to his master. The assassin did not want to think about it, he could never understand why Malik _enjoyed_ such thought experiments, his head hurt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Thinking was for other men, he was meant for action.

He looked to the town crier.

"Who knows what the future holds, what tragedies tomorrow may bring? Defend against an uncertain future; protect the ones you love! Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Talal provides."

He had heard nothing else of the propaganda, and Altair cursed as the crier walked into the crowd, wishing he had paid more attention. Too many thoughts were in his head, too many memories and conflicts and emotions that did him no good. Bloodlust was making it difficult to see, and he bared his teeth, forcing himself to stay invisible in the crowd.

The herald headed toward the gate, for a moment Altair was afraid the man would leave the city but he turned to the dark shadows of an alleyway. It was too perfect for words, and the assassin gave in to his thirst for violence.

He kicked the man viciously in the back, making the herald stumble forward. "Oh," the man grunted, getting up, "Is it a fight you want?"

"Yes," Altair replied, and punched the man in the face before a defense could be raised. The herald threw a punch of his own, but the assassin ducked it, shoving his fist up under the man's ribcage once, twice, before grabbing an arm and spinning him into the city wall. Altair kicked the man in the side, then, before following up with a kidney punch and finishing with a chokehold.

"I have nothing to say to _you_ ," the crier grunted, struggling against Altair's strong arms.

"Speak to me or speak to God," Altair said in a growl, "It's your choice." Part of him wished the man would refuse, the demoted assassin's energy was not spent yet, and wanted to fight more.

"You won't stop the work he does," the man gasped, desperate for air, "Cannot stop it. He prepares them... for the Journey. They are held in his warehouse; and when the time comes, they are sent to Acre."

"Where is this warehouse?" the assassin demanded. There were several warehouses in the city, mostly merchant. Searching them could take days.

"Talal tells me what I need to know, nothing more," the crier grunted. "It is safer that way."

Such confidence! Altair saw red.

"For him, perhaps. But not, I fear, for you." And the hidden blade went deep into the man's neck, the move decidedly more precise than his clumsy, emotive work in the graveyard outside the city, but still less than his standard. Blood spurted, but it did not fly, and Altair found no blood on him as the crier fell limp to the ground. It would be an insult to the scholar's wife if he dirtied his whites after her effort to clean them. Blinking, he looked down to the crier. He had killed out of bloodlust, out of confusion and anger and without thought. Would this man at his feet also come to haunt him?

... He was no good like this.

Marching back into the square, Altair deliberately kept to the streets, trying to expend the energy his body was coiled around. He felt like a spring, taught and ready to be released, but now was not the time, he had to do something to fix himself. He walked down the main thoroughfare from the gate, past the merchant stands before turning south up some steps into an open-air market. Mostly it held cotton merchants, selling cottons and rugs and clothes and blankets. Baasir spent much time here, his cover as a weaver making him well known.

Altair remembered when he had first arrived to Jerusalem, Baasir had taken all the new apprentices and showed them around the market, introducing them. He let apprentices make their own contacts, giving them "missions" to do favors for certain people and get in their good graces, to listen to their conversations and report back. Altair had taken his missions very seriously, but he had never understood the purpose. Baasir had said to "make friends," and the young teen had not understood how favors equated to friends. Favors meant debts to collect, things to hold over contacts to get what one wanted. There was no equality in the exchange that a young Altair saw. Friends... friends only existed in the Order - and even then, only Malik had ever been an equal. He was the only one who could challenge Altair, and he thrived on challenge.

Now...

The scholar...

Malik...

Altair rubbed his forehead again, growling loud enough that people near him startled.

He turned west again and walked with hurried steps through the cotton market, down a narrow set of stairs until he saw the Bureau. He walked the perimeter of the building several times, until the sun was almost set, trying to stop his mind and unable to. He climbed the ladder and stared at the roof of the building, trying to still himself.

The Jerusalem Bureau was one of the biggest buildings the Order had outside of Masyaf. One of the oldest, over time the buildings connected to the Bureau were purchased and became part of it. The roof was three different levels, with crates and poles and scaffolding; as a result Jerusalem boasted having the fastest runners and climbers in the Order. Baasir tested them every night at twilight, when the guards of the nearby watchtower were at their most tired and the shadows covered them best. If an apprentice could make the ever-changing course in one go without making noise in the dark, it was a pass, if not, it was a fail. Baasir had once proudly said that no one had ever passed, and he ate his words when Altair did it two years later when he was sixteen.

Twilight approached, the shadows were everywhere, and Altair found his feet dashing around the roof of the Bureau, following the old lines of the course, climbing, jumping, and balancing. He made the circuit in fifty heartbeats, a personal record.

It felt hollow.

The energy had left him at last, though, as he felt listless resignation. Baasir would never watch him run again.

Sighing, he jumped down to the walled in courtyard. An apprentice was there, looking up in anticipation.

"It is true then, you have returned!" he said, his voice high and awestruck. "When the _dai_ said... but it is good to see you again, Master Altair!"

He did not want to deal with this. He _never_ wanted to deal with boys admiring him, the assassin never knew how to respond, what to say, how to act. He tried to be tactful. "Were you sent to greet me?" He made no remark on how rough his voice sounded.

The apprentice flinched. "No," the boy said. "I have work near the Dome of the Rock to do."

"... Then you should get to it," Altair replied. "I will not keep you."

The apprentice's shoulders slumped, but he climbed out the Bureau, disappearing into the night.

Altair took a deep breath, reminding himself that Baasir would not be behind the counter when he entered. And, gritting his teeth, he stepped into the back room.

"Safety and peace, _dai_."

"Your presence here deprives me of both."

Altair stared, his mouth agape, as he saw who the new _dai_ was. Standing behind the counters, examining the shelves, in the dark cloak of a _dai_ , was Malik. His former friend turned, and Altair's eyes invariably looked to the right arm, the sleeve pinned up, the _missing appendage_. He had lost his arm. All because of Altair.

_"I should kill you for what you've done. Malik thinks it only fair."_

_"Discretion, Altair!"_

_"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."_

_"Men, to arms! Kill the assassins!"_

_"All of this could have been avoided!"_

_"How can you still trust him?"_

_"Make humble your heart child, of I swear I'll tear if from you with my own hands."_

_"Because you would not heed my warning!"_

_"Peace be upon you..."_

"What do you want?" Malik snarled, his face vicious. Altair startled, realized he had been staring. What was _wrong_ with him? He shook his head slightly, memories flashing over and over in his mind's eye, fighting for dominance. Altair violently shoved them aside, stepping further into the back room, to the counter. He looked to the old wood, tried to picture Baasir and the dyes and the threads and the smell of cotton, tried to pretend none of this had ever happened.

"Al Mualim has asked that-"

"Asked that you perform some menial task in an effort to redeem yourself." His eyes snapped up, looking again at the fastened sleeve before he forced his gaze to Malik's angry face. Altair opened his mouth but nothing came out. Words always failed him, whatever gift he had with languages he had no skill with _words,_ conversation. He took a breath and tried again, a hundred thoughts firing back and forth in his mind, fighting to be said. He felt like he was crawling inside his own skin. Malik's face contorted with impatience. "So be out with it," he demanded, sounding bored.

Altair forced himself to respond to the prompt. "Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal."

"It is _your_ duty to locate and assassinate the man, Altair, not mine," Malik lectured, leaning over the counter and pointing to the demoted assassin.

Altair's hackles rose. "You'd do well to assist me. His death benefits the entire land."

"Do you deny his death benefits you as well?" Malik asked, an eyebrow rose in disbelief.

"Such things do not concern me," Altair said.

"That is a lie," Malik growled, his face harsh again. "If you did not think of your own benefit then Kadar would still be alive, if you did not think of your benefit then none of this would have happened!"

Altair was confused, distracted with how the fastened sleeve folded and changed from a breeze of the courtyard. His mind was too full; he could not keep his thoughts straight. "None of what I did that day was for my benefit," he said. The demotion, the humiliation, nothing of that day had benefited him. Why did he feel so defensive? He had hurt Malik enough; his troubles should not weigh on the _dai_. "My redemption, as you call it, it does not concern you."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Malik's face contorted, he looked nothing like himself as he let out a furious hiss. "Your actions _very much_ concern me!" he shouted, pointing violently to his missing arm.

"Do not hold yourself responsible," Altair started, but Malik cut him off again.

"Oh, no, of course not, since _you_ do not hold _yourself_ responsible, do you? You will not even investigate the target that's been assigned to you!"

Rational thought finally left Altair.

His back straightened, his gaze level, his face hard, he hissed: "Then don't help me! I'll find him myself!"

He _hated_ Jerusalem. Altair stomped out of the back room, into the courtyard and was halfway up the wall when he heard a heavy sigh.

"Wait, wait," Malik called, his voice tired, resigned. Altair paused, his face pressing in on itself as everything weighed on his shoulders. He was as tired as Malik.

He reentered the back room to see Malik slumped on a stool, holding his head with his single hand. Altair only felt more pain. "It won't do to have you stumble about the city like a blind man," Malik said, sighing again. "Better you know where to begin your search."

"I'm listening," Altair replied.

"I can think of three places: south of here in the markets that line the border between the Muslim and Jewish districts, to the north in the mosque of this district, and the eastern front of St. Ann's church, close to the _Bab al-Asbatt_."

"Is that everything?" the demoted assassin asked.

Some of the fire returned in Malik's eyes. "It's enough to get you started, and more than you deserve."

It was dark, but Altair had no intention of sleeping in the Bureau, and he turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To begin my investigation," Altair said, his voice flat.

"Stupid novice, there is no one to investigate at this time of night, they are all asleep and the guards are fresh on their shift, now is not the time to go."

"I know all that," Altair growled. He did not wish to explain why he did not want to stay here.

Malik was a step ahead of him. "I heard from my old mentor that you think yourself so above the rest of us that you wouldn't even sleep in the Bureau. Is that true even here on your old training ground?"

"That is not what-"

"It is true that you don't deserve to sleep here," Malik cut in, his eyes bright and angry, "but I won't have you dishonoring us more than you already have. Sleep in the courtyard."

And Altair did not have the energy to argue.

* * *

He woke with a kick to the head.

"I doubt Talal is hiding in my Bureau, Altair, so why are you still here? Are you hoping I might do your job for you? Get out, get going, get to work!"

It took every ounce of willpower to not start another fight with Malik. It wasted energy for both of them, and the dawn light indicated that the _dai_ was correct, it was time to move. Malik had disappeared back into the Bureau, and Altair refilled his water skin from the fountain, taking the water and splashing his face.

Hesitantly, he looked into the dim light of the Bureau. Malik stood once more behind the counter, looking at the back shelves, studying the books there. Altair wondered what front Malik would use. Would he take over as a weaver, or choose to be a potter like Ibtisam, or something entirely different?

Malik sensed the eyes on him, and turned around, already spitting out words. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"... Nothing," Altair responded.

He turned with taught shoulders and quickly ascended to the roof of the Bureau.

The morning sun was just cresting the city wall. Altair took to the streets again, working through the wellspring of emotions that had been plaguing him since he came to the city yesterday, trying to get them out of his body so he could focus on he needed to do: investigate Talal. He wandered, almost aimlessly, for just over two hours before he felt in control of his own mind. The streets were starting to crowd, and with a deep breath Altair settled himself and took stock of his surroundings. He was near the _souk_ , it seemed, looking up he could just make out the arched roof above the building in front of him.

... The scholar's sons worked there, and they knew of Talal because of the town crier. Hadn't one of them tried to go for work? Perhaps he could learn when Talal's warehouse was. Nodding to himself, he made his way down an alley and up some stairs, coming out to the side of the massive marketplace. He started to turn and go down the stairs when something caught his eyes, and he saw a journeyman quickly approaching him.

He paused, letting the other man catch up, and the other man quickly grabbed his wrist and started pulling. "Safety and peace, Altair," the journeyman said, trying to sound casual. "We live in harsh times, do we not?" It was one of the permanent residents of Jerusalem, Farasat, in his forties and with family. He often oversaw the apprentices in pick pocketing.

"The times are always harsh," Altair responded, "Commenting on the redundant seems an ill use of your time. What is wrong?"

"As direct as ever I see," Farasat replied. The pair reached the side of the _souk_ , half in sun and half in shade, and the journeyman gave a heavy sigh. "I am in an ocean of trouble," he admitted. "I had a mission to investigate some strange disappearances in the Muslim district, and Talal's men saw my face. My status is compromised!"

"That was careless of you," Altair said, frowning, "And unlike you."

"It is and it was," the journeyman replied. "The death of Baasir is felt by all of us, our focus is broken. That Talal's men are persistent did not help; I had thought myself perfectly hidden and was unaware of the guard around the corner. He ripped of my _tagelmust_ when I did not answer the questions as he wished, and he and his partner gave chase. I am certain the new _dai_ will be displeased."

Altair paused, his interest in a different area perking. "Is Malik a strict _dai_?"

The journeymen gave a small laugh and a shake of the head. "He is as lost as the rest of us," he replied, "perhaps more. He is quick to anger and his tongue is even faster than that of the _rafiq_ in Damascus. But I have seen his mind, and he will be an excellent mentor to the apprentices and younger journeymen; and a good leader, too, once he conquers his anger."

"... I see," Altair said. His mind was entering thoughts he promised himself he would not trouble with, and he shook it off, redirecting the conversation. "I am here to kill Talal, but first I must investigate him. The two men after you, you say they are his men?"

"Yes, and likely nearby no doubt," the journeyman replied. "Would you be kind enough to eliminate them for me, in exchange for the information you seek?"

"Of course," Altair said.

Farasat nodded, something in his eyes. He explained that Talal's men wore blue, with thin yellow stripes on their uniform. One wore a dark blue-gray _tagelmust_ , the other did not and had very dark skin.

Altair left, going down some steps and into the _souk_. The indoor marketplace was already filled with merchants and customers, city guard patrolled to keep the peace but not everyone from the morning shift had arrived, it seemed, for there were few guards indeed as Altair made his rounds. He saw one of the scholar's sons but did not speak with him; that would come later, after his work was done. He saw one of the described guards walking around; hand on his sword and eyes shifting everywhere, looking for Altair's old teacher. The demoted assassin fell in step behind him, keeping his head down and his eyes locked on the man's feet. A city guard passed, and with a quick look Altair saw that no one of import was nearby. Altair caught up to Talal's man in two steps and quickly stabbed him in the back, the near-bloodless strike under the ribs that penetrated a lung.

Altair calmly walked away as the man stumbled for several more steps before falling. He saw a city guard perk and move towards the fresh corpse, and Altair quickly walked down some steps. The other blue-clad man, the one with dark skin, stood at a corner of the indoor marketplace, alert as his eyes analyzed the crowd. Altair calmly walked past him and turned right; walking several feet down the _souk_ before turning around. Talal's man had paid him no mind, and Altair slowly backtracked, his footsteps silent in the crowd as he snuck up behind the man and killed him as well.

As he made his way out of the _souk_ , he saw another of the scholar's sons, looking at him intently. Altair did not comment, instead looked away. Whatever grateful feelings they felt for his poorly executed attack on their father's would-be killers, seeing him kill men now, in cold blood no less, would likely sour them. He had lost a possible source of information with this, but he would not let himself feel regret over it. They were just merchants, a brother's information was much more valuable.

_"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."_

Altair shook his head again, climbing the steps and seeking out the journeymen.

"Altair! You're rid of the ones who knew me?" he asked, his voice a little higher in pitch. He had been truly worried.

The demoted assassin nodded.

"Excellent! I knew the rumors were wrong about you." Altair stiffened but said nothing, letting his former teacher continue. "Here's what I learned about Talal: He's a powerful slaver, occupies and area north of town, near the barbican. He pays a tribute to the city guards so he can operate in the shadows. But, from what you've shown me today, I'm sure he will share the same fate as the others. Thank you again, Altair." He put a hand to his chest and bowed his head.

"It was nothing," the demoted assassin said.

Farasat smiled under his _tagelmust_. "To you, perhaps it would be. But I suspect that over time you'll come to learn that it is, in fact, _something_. Perhaps when you conquer your own anger, you will know of what I speak."

Altair frowned, uncertain in one respect what the journeyman said, and in another all too aware. His thoughts scattered as he watched the pickpocket teacher disappear into the crowds, and he shook his head again, growling, as he forced himself to remain focused.

Since the scholar's sons had seen him, Altair decided it was best to leave the area. He headed south, letting the flow of the crowds take them wherever they willed. He listened intently to the surrounding conversations, hoping to pick up something, but all he heard was worries over disappearing people and fright at who might be next. One old woman cackled pleasure that a good-for-nothing son had disappeared while a young man wondered where his sickly brother had been taken. There were no details. And as he wandered away from the _souk_ , fewer knew the name of Talal and what he did. Those that did spoke his name with great fear and in hushed whispers.

This was tiring. Did no one know the information he sought?

Altair passed the Bureau and debated for all of a second about going in for a mid-day meal before continuing with the crowd and arriving in the cotton market. The heat of the day was pressing heavily down on the people, but they still went from one chore to the next. Off in a corner, under the shade of the Dome of the Rock, a small food vendor was enticing people with delicious smells and aromas. Given that Altair had not eaten yet, he joined the throng and sat in a dark corner under a tree to rest from the searing temperatures and just listen.

"Is this the great Altair before me?" came an awed voice.

Altair said nothing, having seen the gray hood of a young apprentice before he sat down.

The same one he'd seen when he arrived at the Bureau in fact.

"You must be here for a very important mission," the apprentice said, "maybe I could help you?"

Altair turned, glancing at the apprentice and the pieces of paper scattered around him. He recognized the drawings as the Dome of the Rock and what's more, he recognized the code in them.

If one was to stay in one spot eavesdropping, after all, one needed an excuse. Malik had been fond of drawing and sketches if he needed to stay in one spot for an extended period, and could take dictation with his charcoal such that it was woven into the sketches he did. This apprentice was doing the same, letting the curved lines and dots of Arabic meld with toning and shading to hide in plain sight.

"If you seek to help the Brotherhood," Altair started, "then learn how to draw better. While your code is well hidden, your attempt at the Dome looks childish."

The apprentice looked down at his drawings and winced, bowing his head in shame and apology, hurriedly picking up his scraps of paper.

It struck Altair that this apprentice bore the wide-eyed enthusiasm and gentle heart of Kadar and the strike hurt more than Altair wanted to deal with at the moment. He had not properly encouraged Kadar on that last mission. He'd been so full of himself that he hadn't bothered to play the part of a teacher, which every senior assassin was.

"Wait," he said, grasping the apprentice's arms. "A criticism is meant to help. You are competent at hiding words in sketches, but the sketches themselves need work, else someone might wonder why an amateur is spending the day drawing instead of learning from a master."

The apprentice sat again, looking at his drawings. "I see your point," he mumbled.

Altair awkwardly shrugged, a vision of Kadar far to sharp in his mind. "I see the new _dai_ has taught you well."

The apprentice looked up, nodding enthusiastically. "Indeed! I would never have thought that sketches could hide codes. He has great wisdom behind his sharp tongue."

Altair would have smiled at that, remembering his many arguments with Malik as a child, but instead there was a sharp bitter tang and he wished to change topic.

Swiftly.

"Yesterday you said you had a mission. How is it going?"

The apprentice gave a great smile. "You remembered me from yesterday?" he asked. "I am Halim and I hope to become as great as you one day!"

Altair rolled his eyes under his hood at the abject praise. "Focus not on me. I am but one in a Brotherhood. Focus instead on what _you_ can do. Now how has your mission gone?"

Halim nodded enthusiastically. "I have been eavesdropping and I have learned much! I have heard that-" he trailed off, sitting back.

"Yes?" Altair prodded, finishing off his snack.

"Ah," Halim stumbled over his words. "Both Al Mualim and our new _dai_ have said that you must earn any information you seek from us..."

Altair stared.

Halim shrank.

Altair sighed, looking away. "I have expected such. What would you have me do?"

The apprentice continued to stare at the ground. "You have given me advice and wisdom. I believe that that will count as earning-"

"No," Altair interrupted. "That is what any senior assassin would do, for every assassin is a teacher to the next. What would you have me do?"

They sat in silence for a time as the apprentice thought. When Halim finally looked up, he offered, cautiously, "It is said you conquered _Rafiq_ Baasir's toughest running course within two years of your arrival?"

Altair nodded. It seemed his name was known as legend in Jerusalem. He wasn't certain how to feel about that.

Halim smiled. "If you are done eating, there is a course around the cotton market here that our _dai_ has been planning. I wonder how I would fair against such a master?"

In this, Altair could give an honest smile. None would beat him in such a race. He pulled out his map and Halim showed Altair the route that they would take over rooftops and beams. With the sun at its zenith, people were slowing down, seeking repose in the shade or indoors, making it as good as nighttime to practice the course.

He let Halim go off first and take the lead. After ten heartbeats, Altair took off after him, letting the wind in his face push back how Halim reminded him of Kadar, and even Malik in a way, with his sketches and codes. And how young Halim reminded Altair of himself, eager and determined, when he was that age. Desperate to prove himself and win any challenge to show that a half-Christian half-Muslim boy would be an asset.

Altair reached Halim in no time, making the young apprentice gasp and lose his footing, stumbling down to a roof too low instead of making it across, giving Altair time to get far ahead. The ending point was back under the tree and Altair leapt off a second story roof into the shaded corner and landed with a sharp _thud_ , startling everyone who had sought the shade to relax.

"What is that man doing?"

"What a _strange_ man."

"I've never seen someone do that before."

"He's going to hurt himself."

Halim landed behind him moments later, out of breath and already reaching for his waterskin.

"That was great! I knew I could count on you, Master Altair. You have shown me I still have much to learn."

Altair said nothing, taking a sip from his own waterskin.

"Here is what I know from listening to the guards near the Dome of the Rock: They were talking about the man named Talal. They said he has many loyal followers, all of whom will readily give their lives for the man. If their master is in danger, they are sure to intervene, giving Talal time to escape. That is all I know. I hope my small contribution _will_ help you."

"It already has," Altair replied. "Now get back to your work."

Halim nodded enthusiastically and ran off, not even bothered by just having run under the hot sun. Altair stayed in the shaded corner under the tree, letting the afternoon heat settle around him and the city like a wall to walk through. He waited till midafternoon, when the day was at its hottest, but would finally start to cool, to finally stand and continue investigating. He stayed to the shaded alleys for both the coolness and the invisibility as he headed north towards the barbican that Talal was supposedly hiding. It was close to early evening when he finally spied the thick, tall walls.

When he had first come to Jerusalem, merchants had used the barbican; a solid fortification to store special and expensive items that only the richest of the city would pay coin for. While the city guards still blocked the entrances, Altair noted a number of guards not in the reddish brown of the city, but blue with yellow stripes that he believed to be Talal's men. During his apprenticeship, Baasir often tested rank by seeing if an apprentice could breech the barbican's fortifications. Altair had passed that test into journeyman as the youngest ever at seventeen, and despite the sour feeling Jerusalem stirred in his innards he smiled at the memory.

The heat had finally eased off, so Altair found a ladder and swiftly ascended to the roofs and went to a known viewpoint, scaling in the shade with the steady power that had made him the best in Jerusalem. An eagle screeched, not appreciating being ousted from its perch. From his high vantage point, he could see the warehouses in the barbican. But at his height, he couldn't quite see enough detail, not in the fading light. But it was enough to see that there was more motion on the barbican's roofs than when he had been apprenticed here.

Altair narrowed his eyes. He'd have to scout the guard positions for when he assassinated Talal. For now, he needed to return to the Bureau. Malik's sharp words from the previous day made it clear that he wouldn't appreciate Altair "not trusting" the Bureau to sleep in. Never mind that Jabal made it clear he _couldn't_ stay at the Bureau or that Ibtisam made it clear he wasn't welcome. Admittedly, Altair did not feel comfortable staying at the Jerusalem Bureau either. There were too many memories there. His training under Baasir, now gone, Adha, the young novices and apprentices who looked at him with awe and respect that was just like Kadar.

But Malik seemed determined to torture him, so Altair returned to the Bureau.

It was after sunset when he arrived, the shadows of nighttime hiding his jaunt across rooftops. He used to arrive at this time before as it allowed him to either sit with Baasir or, as he became well known in the Order, go straight to his room to avoid the wide-eyed wonder of the novices and apprentices.

He realized his mistake as soon as he landed in the garden courtyard.

Malik was tapping his foot impatiently, a look of fury carefully banked. "Altair, you've already made a stir, I see."

"All I have done was start investigating Talal."

Malik's eyes flashed angrily "No, you've been using _my_ men to do your work for you! You had no right to seek out Halim or Farasat for information."

Altair narrowed his eyes. He did not want an argument. "I did not seek them out. They came to me. If you have a problem with that, talk to them."

There was an almost-snarl. "I don't have to. Halim is already talking to any who will listen of the wisdom you have. Tell me, _Master_ Altair, where your teaching ways were for Kadar? All you told him was to watch you!"

Altair refused to show the weakness of backing down. Malik knew just how to raise his ire and he was ready to offer his own biting words, when there was a thump behind him as another assassin dropped in, his robes showing a lower rank.

Malik immediately snubbed Altair, the senior assassin despite demotion, and Altair took the moment to go to what would usually be his room in the Bureau.

He found it converted to a room for apprentices, three pallets laid out. Two were in and when they saw Altair in their doorway, questions immediately pelted him. Altair had had the patience for Halim as it was _only_ Halim. He always wished to _avoid_ this. He tried to be polite, but he was tired and did not wish to deal with this. Fed up, he gave a glare, leaving the apprentices scurrying as he returned to the main office of the Bureau.

The main office wasn't much better. Senior journeymen were gathered by the chessboard and talking quietly. Younger midranks were gathered by the fountain in the courtyard, talking. Some brave novices were with Malik by the counter, going over scrolls and parchments, Malik providing lessons with biting sarcasm, but his words were wise nonetheless. Malik saw him come in and smiled smugly.

Altair felt... apart from the main office. Indeed, from the Bureau as a whole. He knew that the main offices of various Bureaus were gathering places, but he had never seen the point. He had focused on his studies and then his missions. Baasir often encouraged him to participate and, after all brothers had gone to bed, he would come down for a quiet game of chess with Baasir. (He never had won against the old _rafiq_...) But with the others, he had never bothered.

Seeing the camaraderie, all Altair wished to do was leave. He'd return after all the others had gone to bed.

Unfortunately, Malik wouldn't let him.

"Come, Altair," he called with an unholy grin. "These novices must hear of your prowess so that they might _learn_ from a Master." His face went blank for a moment. "Just don't counter any of my lessons, _novice._ "

Altair lowered his head to grimace.

It would be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Malik... the fights you and Altair get into... it makes we fangirls happy!
> 
> One of the few complaints we have about AC1 is that famous sites are mentioned, but not pointed out like they are in AC2. You have no idea how religious we were/are in AC2/ACB (/ACR I'm sure...) in hitting select whenever a knew famous building or city came up and reading/geeking out over the little factoids about things like Florence's districts or the Roman Colosseum. That we can't do that with things like St. Anne's church or the Dome of the Rock made knowing where to go in the game confusing. It actually wasn't until we were doing the research for this fic where we learned what these places were. For example, while the game's St. Anne's church is right by the city gate like it is in the real world, the structure that's in the game looks nothing like the pictures of the church on Wikipedia. We also didn't know what a "Barbican" was until we looked it up. A barbican is sort of a "fort in a fort," it's an extra-fortified gatehouse connected to a city wall.
> 
> Also, in Malik's conversation with Altair in the game when he's listing places, he uses a word that sounds like "babarihadit," but we couldn't find that word or anything like it in our research. The closest we could get was Bab al-Asbatt, which is the name of the gate Altair uses to enter the city. It seems unlikely since that's also where St. Anne's Church is, but we really didn't have any idea. (We curse you, game-with-no-subtitles!) Does anyone with more knowledge of Jerusalem and Arabic know what he possibly could have meant?
> 
> Technically, if you go based off the interrogation investigation by St. Anne's church, we think Jerusalem is supposed to come first before Acre, but for the sake of storytelling (re: Malik. And our idea that Altair's apprenticeship was in Jerusalem) it made more sense to have it come last. That meant the interrogation investigation was pretty edited. Hope nobody minds.
> 
> Next chapter: Death of a Slaver


	9. Death of a Slaver

Altair did not sleep. Or rather, did not rest well. He was in the middle of a mission, and even though he was safe in the Bureau walls, even in the courtyard, he would not sleep until the mission was truly done. Yet staring up at the sky through the latticework, Altair could not even relax enough to rest. The Bureau practically oozed of Malik's tension and displeasure of having Altair there and the worship of the lower ranks kept Altair stiff, lest some novice try and come to him to ask questions as he had Baasir when he was younger.

So when Malik came to kick him awake once more, Altair simply dodged and stood. The _dai_ did not look any more well-rested than Altair, but Malik could nap and rest once he'd seen all the apprentices and journeyman out for their various missions. Altair had a full day of investigation ahead of him.

"Get moving, Altair," Malik growled. "The day is wasting away and you have work to do. Or am I to do it all for you? Or my men?"

Altair didn't bother to dignify anything with a response. He knew he was too tired to do anything but argue and that truly _would_ waste time. So he simply nodded and climbed out of the Bureau.

The sun had yet to raise, the sky a purplish pink of dawn, and Altair headed north. He had looked around the _souk_ , the Dome of the Rock, and he had started scouting out the barbican. He wished another look at the barbican's west entrance, particularly the roofs, to see if he might get a better idea of the layout of the guards.

He stayed to the rooftops this time, for the better lighting from the rising sun. He was almost to the western entrance when he spotted a sky garden. Altair hesitated for a moment before slipping into its shade and _finally_ resting. A few hours wouldn't hurt; at least until the sun was fully up and people started bustling in the streets. While he could go for days without sleep if he needed to, that did not mean he _had_ to in order to prove some point to Malik.

Three hours later was longer than he had wanted, but he felt all the better for it. The sun was clear of the horizon and Altair stretched before adjusting his harness and silently leaving the shaded garden.

"You do not belong up here. Leave."

Altair raised his hands in surrender, glancing to his left where an archer stood with his bow notched. He bowed his head and muttered an apology before walking to the ladder to his right, rubbing the back of his head in a show of embarrassment.

As he descended, the guard chuckled. "Next time, don't let your romantic tryst wear you out so. You need to be on the streets by sun up."

Altair let his hood hide his grin.

Once back on the streets, Altair headed west, knowing the above archer, despite leniency, would likely be watching him. He ended up at another cemetery and for a moment, Altair's heart ached before he ruthlessly squashed it down. He had a mission to do after all, and being distracted by unimportant matters would be a hindrance. Still, he wandered inside, his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer as he looked about the stones. He wondered if any of them was for Kadar or for the scholar's brother who may or may not be the man he'd killed under Solomon's Temple.

He was staring at one grave when his ears picked up something interesting from a pair of men behind him.

"He's a _coward_ ," the rounder man said. "That's why my sister lays here. If it wasn't for the money, I'd be long gone!"

"You're either stupid or blind," the other replied. "Maybe it's both."

The rounder man stepped into the other's space. "How can you say that?"

"You didn't see what happened," the thinner said smugly.

"I saw _well enough_! Our caravan was attacked, and the _first thing_ he did was _flee_!"

" _No_ , he didn't run."

"What are you talking about?" the round man growled.

"Do you forget what became of the men who attacked us?"

"Felled by our archers, thanks be to God."

"Not _our_ archers. Him. Alone." The thinner man gave a satisfied grin.

The round man stepped back. "So you're saying _he_ saved us? _Talal_?"

"Yes," the smug man nodded. "He headed for higher ground, used his bow to kill them."

"I... I had no idea," the round man looked sadly down to the grave.

"The man is a master archer. You'd do well to remember that."

The rounder man put a hand on the grave. "So he avenged my sister without my even knowing it." He sighed. "I am late for work. I must be on my way."

The thinner man followed. "Remember to apologize for your rudeness when you have the chance."

"I will."

Altair watched them go from the corner of his eye. For appearances, he stayed in the graveyard for another hour, checking on graves and appearing to pray for lost souls, while he turned that tidbit of information over in his mind.

Talal being an archer would make things difficult if he got away. Knowing Jerusalem as he did, Altair could already see his target heading for the merchant halls that had swifter access to the roof than private houses or exposed ladders like Altair himself would use. When he killed Talal, he would have to make sure it was in the warehouse or some other enclosed area, so that Talal would not have a chance to use his bow.

Regardless, he needed to plot out where the guards were in the barbican.

He started to head east again, sipping from his water-skin as the day continued to get hotter. Staying to darkened alleys and side-streets, he finally had the western entrance in sight.

The roofs would be the best way in. The entrance here was well guarded and the southern entrance even more so. Altair was looking around for a ladder when a wide-eyed boy of barely fourteen turned the corner and ran into him.

"Sorry!" he shouted, hurrying off on his way, but Altair paid no mind, instead pulling out a small sheet of paper that had been dropped into his pack when they collided.

_The barbican is watching for white hoods, you idiot. You drew too much attention yesterday. Discretion! I told you about the border between the Muslim and Jewish districts, now move!_

Altair scowled so strongly that people started to give him a wide berth, but otherwise turned and headed south.

On his way he stopped off in the cotton market again for the vendor that he had eaten from the previous day. The food was good and filled his belly as he started to see the impoverished Jewish district in the distance.

One of Talal's guards, with the blue and yellow stripes was weaving down the street, somewhat drunkenly. Clearly he did not have a clean source of water. Altair sat down at a table in the shade to finish his snack and discreetly watch.

The guard tottered by before Altair saw something most interesting happen.

A bald man snuck up behind the drunken guard and started following.

 _That's no brother_. Altair licked his fingers and drank from his water-skin again, his eyes on the guard and his follower. Altair followed as well, though at a much safer distance. Once the guard was in an alley, the bald man struck, knocking the drunk into unconsciousness before crouching to rifle through his pouches.

Altair observed it all on a bench across from the alley. The bald man seemed to find what he was looking for and hurried off to a small square, where a man in blue seemed to be waiting.

Altair faced a shop, appearing to observe the earthenware, and listened.

"If the guards won't take action," the bald man was saying, "It falls to us to do something."

The man in blue shook his head. "What you propose is madness."

"But _necessary_ ," he said in a quiet hiss. "How many more will we allow to go missing before the people take a stand?"

"It does not affect us."

"Not yet," the bald man agreed. "But if we continue to do nothing, it will."

"What do you propose?" the man in blue asked incredulously.

"I've watched the man," the bald man leaned in. "Learned everything there is to know about his operation. It's all here. I've got a map of the guards' positions around the warehouse. He inspects his stock every day at the same time. This is when I'll _strike_."

"So you have a piece of paper," the man in blue scoffed. "It won't save you when you're discovered. Won't shield you from their swords and arrows."

"If all goes well, it won't come to that. Anyway," the bald man said solemnly. "It's a risk I'll have to take. Wish me luck my friend."

In this, the man in blue seemed to soften and they embraced. "Indeed," he said, clapping his back. "You'll need it."

Altair smiled, buying a simple wooden bowl. It would seem he didn't need to scout around the barbican after all.

The pickpocketing was simplicity itself and Altair retreated to the roofs and another sky-garden to start going over what he had learned.

The map he had grabbed showed guard positions along with the rotation shifts. The drunken guard had likely just been assigned a new post and was using the map to see his new duties. This was a stroke of luck for Altair, as it usually took the Order the better part of a week of observations to get so much detail. And, carefully written in a corner, was the usual time Talal checked his stock with the words "Extra vigilance!" scrawled beside it.

This was very good. Talal made his inspections mid-afternoon. The oppressive heat of the day would keep the stock passive and lethargic and the caravans departing with them would not leave until early evening when the weather cooled.

Altair left the sky garden and headed down to the streets once more, working his way to the merchant halls. Once there he wandered the halls until he found a parchment merchant and bought several sheets. He spied one of the scholar's sons again, but he pretended not to see him and went on his way. The son followed Altair with his eyes, but otherwise did nothing.

Outside, Altair once more climbed to the roofs and into a sky garden. He sorted through all the information he'd gathered from his investigations and started to write out his report. Malik had learned from Ibtisam and Ibtisam had made Altair rewrite his reports several times. Malik would likely be worse and Altair did not want to give him the pleasure of making him rewrite his reports over and over again.

It was while working on these reports that a basic plan worked itself out in Altair's mind. The western entrance was the least guarded and the rooftops would provide good cover from the guards down below. Any obstructions in his way would be swiftly dealt with and would mean fewer problems when he escaped. The only thing Altair wished he possessed was a map of the interior of the warehouse, but he could make do once he was inside.

 _Talal, a cunning slave master, has a warehouse in the northern barbican filled with human livestock. He inspects them daily, preparing them for travel. Knowing exactly where his guards are, I need simply strike during his next inspection,_ he wrote. Malik would no doubt scoff at it, but it was a fair assessment of what he had learned. Still, he kept pouring over his report and rewording things when necessary and detailing what he'd overheard amongst the people as he wandered the streets.

Night had fallen when Altair was finally satisfied (though a part of him knew Malik would _still_ have him rewrite it...). He flitted from roof to roof in silence, making his way back to the Bureau, unseen by those still on the streets or the guards standing by their torches.

He dropped in silently and went in to the main office where Malik was waiting by the only candle.

"Malik," he greeted.

"Come to waste more of my time?" the _dai_ retorted, clearly irritated at having to stay up to wait for him.

"I have found Talal," Altair replied, keeping strictly to the business at hand, handing over his reports. "I am ready to begin my mission."

"That is for me to decide," Malik said coldly, pulling out a book. "I am the _dai_ here."

Altair bowed to no one but Al Mualim, but he kept his anger in check. Petty bickering would not let him leave Jerusalem any sooner and he was ready to be _gone_ from the Holy City. "Very well," he replied haughtily. "Here's what I know: he traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem's citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located inside the barbican north of here. As we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I'll strike while he's inspecting the stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge."

"Little challenge?" Malik interrupted. "Listen to you. Such _arrogance_."

Altair did not appreciate that. He was not _arrogant_ , he was _confident_. He had been an assassin for five years with many kills and experience under his belts. Malik was his age-mate and only promoted because he could no longer go out and assassinate. Altair was his superior in ability and he did _not_ appreciate his work being questioned.

"Are we _finished_? Are you satisfied with what I've learned?" Because what more could Malik possibly want?

"No," Malik said emphatically. "But it will have to do."

Altair nodded. Neither of them wanted him here any longer.

"Rest, prepare, cry in the corner. Do whatever it is you do before a mission. Only make sure you do it quietly. I will go over your reports."

Altair said nothing. He took some leftover bread from the previous brothers left on the counter and went out to the courtyard.

Over the course of the night, Malik interrupted him several times.

"You're writing is atrocious. What is it you learned from Farasat?"

"Talal appears to be a leader of slavers, and occupies an area north of here, near the barbican. He seems wiser than those I've faced before, however, keeping to the shadows and having his men pay the guards to turn a blind eye."

"What is this map of the _souk_ for?"

"The target is rumored to flee from the fight at the first sign of trouble. This map I've made details possible locations in which he'll take refuge. This is sure to help if he manages to slip away from me. Though I doubt he'll ever get that far."

"And just _what_ did you learn in that graveyard?"

"Talal is said to favor the bow. In a fight, he'll seek to put distance between him and his enemy, trying to kill from afar. I'll close the gap between us before he's even nocked his first arrow."

Altair kept all his answers directly related to the questions and avoided any deviation, despite how Malik's insults grated at him.

The interrupts kept him from properly resting and he was getting more and more irritable, making it difficult to hold his tongue when Malik decided to stomp out and prove that _he_ was in charge of whether or not Altair would be able to go and kill Talal.

It was a waste of time. Al Mualim had bid that Altair kill Talal. Malik couldn't stop him.

Still, Altair _was_ able to manage a few hours of proper rest before the sun started to rise. Once there was proper light, he was studying his maps again, planning for the guards on rooftops and a good way to evade them once Talal was dead.

Or rather, that's what he wished to do.

Instead, Malik kept sending novices and apprentices to him so that they might "learn from a Master." It only stopped when Altair went to Malik and said that if he failed it would not be Altair's fault, but Malik's for not letting him properly study.

There was an ever-so brief flash of surprise that Altair was certain he imagined, but no more brothers bothered him in the courtyard.

Around noon Altair left the Bureau to start weaving the crowds north to the barbican. He kept to the streets, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Whatever Malik thought of how he did a mission, Altair always went out of his way to do his best. With the map of guard positions sneaking in to the warehouse would be simple. Coming across the guards to the west entrance of the barbican, Altair ducked into an alley and climbed a ladder, peaking out slowly. A guard was on a roof a few meters away, making his rounds. The assassin waited until the man had turned before hopping up and dashing to the line of roof that the guard was pacing. Altair listened to the footsteps, waiting for the guard to make another round, hugging the wall and slowly making his way to the other side of the roof. When the guard walked back towards the ladder and away from Altair, he dashed off across the roofs and jumped to a lower level before pressing his back to the wall, waiting. The guard never saw him, however, and no alarm sounded.

Altair pulled out his map and aligned himself with where he was in relation to the warehouse. Even with the map he regretted not scouting the area himself. There was something about seeing something on a piece of parchment versus seeing it in person. Still, there was no going back now, and once he recognized where he was he hopped down to the ground.

The northeast corner had no guards to speak of, facing the city wall Talal obviously thought it safe compared to the south and west. That was his weakness for a man who was so organized in kidnapping people from Jerusalem and shipping them unnoticed to Acre. Altair suddenly wondered whose idea it was to use the broken _souk_ in Acre to sneak the slaves in, Garnier's or Talal's. He wagered Talal.

He studied the warehouse with a critical eye. He saw the open door, most inviting, but Altair did not wish to enter without a more thorough assessment of what was inside. It was the only thing he didn't know. Altair climbed the wall of the warehouse, looking for an open skylight or window. He discovered very quickly that every possible opening was boarded up. He snorted; it was like they were shouting something was suspicious going on in this building.

After an hour of searching for a different entrance, or even catch a glimpse inside to assess he was walking into, Altair grimaced and jumped back to the streets. The door was the only entrance inside; everything else was locked.

Not sooner had he entered that the door slammed shut behind him, enclosing him in darkness.

Though startled, he did not move, instead giving himself time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. His mind filled with curses, and it took him time to force it all out of his mind. The mission came first; he would kill Talal no matter what the circumstances. He had to.

Eyes at last adjusted, Altair found himself in a narrow hallway, filled with boxes and crates. The smell was terrible, even worse than the hospital of Acre - no sweet scent of hashish mixed with opiates, only human waste, sweat, blood, disease, and death. He crept forward slowly; wary of more surprises.

A bony wraith of a man huddled in a cage barely large enough to fit him, passed out and drooling. Further down the hall Altair saw another, beaten and starved, hanging from hands bound in iron to the wall. Bloodstains littered the floor.

He sensed motion more than saw it, and his eyes automatically darted up to see a shadow by some kind of window. Altair could not make out details, could not tell if it was guard or slave, and so he closed his eyes and reached inside himself, thinking of an eagle and the remarkable vision it had, thought of a corner of his mind opening itself to that eagle, and casting out all other senses. Opening his eyes he saw the world as an eagle di _d holy shit what the hell was this no stay in sync_ h, and sensed even without complete sight that this was his target, Talal. He knew their eyes locked, and Altair spoke.

"What now, slaver?" he demanded.

"Do not call me that," the shadow said, ducking from the window. "I only wish to help them, as I myself was helped."

So Talal was a slave, too? Altair put it from his mind, the observation did nothing to help his current circumstances.

"You do no kindness imprisoning them like that," he countered, gesturing to the two slaves, one in a cage and one bound to the wall.

"Imprisoning them?" Talal cried in indignation. "I keep them safe! Preparing them for the journey that lies ahead."

"What journey?" Altair spat. "It is a life of servitude." Life of torture with Garnier, and then a life of blindly following orders under the effects of plants for those that survived, mindless to their own circumstances. What else could it be called but slavery? That Talal suggested otherwise was contemptuous.

"You know nothing." Talal replied. "It was folly to even bring you here, to think that you might see and understand."

The time for words was over. "I understand well enough. Show yourself!"

His eagle-like vision saw the shadow of Talal turn from the window, nodding before disappearing. Altair heard the heavy grating of iron lifting. No light appeared from the hallway from whence he came, but as he approached the end of the narrow corridor he saw another was opening. Another invitation. Altair was hesitant, he did not like being led around by the nose like this, but what could he do but oblige? He would only make certain Talal's death was swift.

He approached the door slowly, passing over some grating. A hand reaching up and grabbing his ankle startled him (Twice, now. He did not like this.). Below was another bony husk of a man, eyes fevered and desperate. "Help me," he groaned, his voice heavy with disease. The man had no strength, Altair easily twisted his foot out of the man's grip, and the body disappeared into the darkness before Altair could lean down and examine him further.

Of course the route would be underground, away from the paid guards and the more vigilant townspeople, likely exiting outside the city somewhere for the treacherous route to Acre. The realization did not help him further, but Altair filed it away for his report later. Talal came first.

Cautiously he stepped through the gate and into a more cavernous room. As expected, the gate closed behind him. There were no slaves here that Altair could sense, likely the shipment was underground now, he had missed the departure.

"Ah, so you want to see the man who called you here."

"You did _not_ call me here," Altair corrected. "I came on my own."

Talal's response was to laugh. The assassin's eagle senses could see the motion above him, men, guards, were milling about, watching, waiting. They were but shadows in the painfully dim light, but to Altair he could perceive the essence of bloodlust. They were spoiling for a fight. "Did you?" Talal asked, a smile in his voice. "Who unbarred the door? Cleared the path? Did you once raise you blade against a single man of mine, huh?"

Altair did not respond. He knew he did not need to.

"No," the slaver said in confirmation. "All this, I did _for_ you."

Altair could hear the sound of movement, could perceive someone taking a beam of wood and using it to lift the wooden bar of one of the skylights away, casting a hazy square of light onto the floor of the cavernous room of the warehouse. Specks of dust reflected in the air. "Step into the light, then, and I will grant you one final favor."

The assassin was no fool; he waited for his eyes to adjust to the new light source. He refused to be baited by this man, but he also knew that he had little option but to do as the slaver said. It grated on him to no end.

Gritting his teeth he stepped into the light.

All at once the guards hopped down, swords drawn, and loosely circled around the assassin.

Above, his target finally revealed himself. He wore blue with thin yellow stripes, like his men, and as Altair expected Talal had a bow slung over his shoulder.

"Now I stand before you," he said with a grand gesture. "What is it you desire?"

Altair remembered de Sable asking a similar question. Bloodlust started to fill him, dimming his eagle. He drew his sword. "Come down here! Let us settle this with honor."

Talal sighed. "Why must it always come to violence?" he asked. The slaver bent forward, putting his hands on his knees and peering down at Altair. The assassin felt himself bristle, he hated being looked down on. "It seems I cannot help you," the archer said, studying Altair, "for you do not wish to help yourself." He stood. "But I cannot allow my work to be threatened. You leave me no choice," he raised a hand, signaling the men surrounding Altair. "You must die."

Five men attacked Altair.

"This will teach you not to trespass."

Let him gloat, Altair thought. The first man lunged forward, and Altair ducked under the swing, slashing his sword himself, his blade striking precisely in the man's sides, between the ribs. The pain spread across the guard along with his cry, and Altair spun behind him, his sword circling around him and slashing at the back of the man's knees, almost severing them and making the guard crumple to the ground. Without missing a beat the assassin deflected a blade of an incoming assault, shoving it aside and kicking the offender back before advancing and slashing with his sword. He did not hit the neck like he wanted but he did not have time to fix it, a third man was coming in for a swing at him. Altair shifted his weight to the side, the sword missing him by inches and stepped inside the man's guard, shoving his sword under the ribcage and impaling the enemy before kicking the body out of his sword. The second man got up and tried again, his swing labored and clumsy from the injury Altair had granted him, and the assassin easily avoided it and swung his sword in quick precise swings, deflecting the blade and aggressively pushing the man back into a corner by a ladder before finding his opening and thrusting his blade into the man's neck, into the collar. Three down.

He cursed as he realized his sword had caught in the bone, he brought a foot onto the man's chest to detach the blade but a forth guard grabbed him and yanked. His balance ruined Altair simply ducked and rolled, his body a tight ball to prevent any sword strikes aimed at him. Coming back up to his feet he drew his short sword. One guard came charging at him with a powerful swing, but his moves were televised and the assassin avoided it, a fist thrusting out and grabbing the man's shoulder to hold him in place long enough to take his short sword and stab the man once, twice in the chest before throwing the dying body aside. Four down.

"No more delays! Be done with him," Talal called from above. He was a fool to watch, but Altair did not question the fortune that had been given him.

Three more guards dropped down from above, Altair could hear the city alarm ringing but paid it no heed as another guard advanced. The assassin spun around the swing, getting a grip on the man's shirt and shoving him into some wood scaffolding. The entire structure collapsed, taking another guard that had been near it, decommissioning two in one go. Six down.

The remaining guard hung back; wary of how deadly the assassin was proving to be. Altair would have none of that, however, and advanced with powerful steps. This last one had considerably more skill than the others, he understood that he had a longer reach than Altair with his sword and kept the assassin back, not letting him get close. The two circled each other around the light from the skylight, trying to find an advantage.

"Kill him already!" Talal demanded, impatient. "What's wrong with you?"

The guard advanced, his swings skilled and efficient. Altair bade his time, countering and ducking and side stepping, looking for a weakness. Then he cursed himself for his stupidity as a thought occurred to him. A quick glance at his belt showed that he was fully stocked, and he brutally shoved the guard into the light before jumping back into the shadows. The guard lost sight of him temporarily as the man's eyes adjusted to the light, and Altair took his time to pull out a throwing knife and flick it to the enemy, the blade plunging deep into his gut. Altair didn't even bother to watch the man fall, instead marched to a ladder he had spied earlier. He grabbed his sword as he went, yanking it out of the corpse it had gotten stuck in.

A sword in each hand he ascended the ladder.

Talal stared, and even in the shadowy light Altair could see the shock on the target's face, the fear in his eyes.

"Keep him away from me!'" he shouted to the last of the guards, dashing up a ladder to the roof.

This was the disaster the assassin had feared, and blood pulsed in his body as he launched himself forward. The guard was pulling out a sword hastily, and Altair leapt, his weight shoving the man back as his hidden blade sunk deep into his neck, slaughtering him. He sheathed both his swords as fast as he could as he rant up to the ladder, leaping up three steps before his hands grabbed the sturdy side and he propelled himself up onto the roof.

The sun momentarily blinded him, even exiting with his eyes closed, and he reached into his mind for the vision of an eagle as he struggled to adjust to the light, his head whipping this way and that to see where Talal and run. South or west, south or west?

He saw motion to his left and saw the archer turn, by a sky garden, to see if he was still being pursued. West!

Altair wasted no time, running down the slope of the roof, his sharp vision planning as he ran. He took a flying leap off the roof of the warehouse and onto some scaffolding, one foot landing on the wooden landing, the second on the structural crossbeam, and then his next step was a leap to the roof of a building pressed against the city wall. Altair saw Talal take off running and the chase was on. He leapt over one roof to another, past the sky garden and leapt two stories down to the ground.

"Help! Guards, help me!"

The two men that had guarded the west entrance turned as Altair pulled out of his roll, and the assassin ran almost blindly into one, shoving his hidden blade into the man's stomach and ignoring the second, chasing after Talal and determined not to loose him. If he made it to the roof of the _souk_ like the assassin suspected it would be an unmitigated catastrophe.

He dashed south, darting up some crates and leaping up onto a wooden ledge, wanting height over the archer. He leapt as his target slowed to look behind him, but in his rush he had misjudged the jump and landed shy of the archer. People around him startled, and Talal cried out, shocked to see the white shadow so close to his heels.

"Help me!" he cried, turning to run, struggling to remove his bow.

Altair took a calculated risk and pulled out a throwing knife, but it embedded itself into a corner of a building as the target ducked away and the assassin took off again, cursing bitterly at how this was turning out. He caught sight of Talal just as he turned into the _souk_ , and Altair put on even more speed, willing his legs to pump faster, hoping against hope the midafternoon heat would have sent most of the buyers and sellers to repose.

One guard managed to plow into him, and Altair growled as he landed hard on his elbow. His hidden blade extracted and he shoved it mercilessly into the city guard's shoulder, his clumsy response miraculously missing the shoulder blade and sliding right out. Hoisting himself up to his feet he snarled and dashed into the marketplace, the dim light blinding him momentarily but he refused to slow down, running blindly into the halls and past one of the scholar's sons.

He came to a split in the _souk_ and he looked left and right. "Slaver!" he shouted. "Show yourself!"

"I told you not to call me that!"

Instinct of an eagle made every muscle in Altair's body go limp and he fell bonelessly to the floor, watching an arrow fly over his head as he fell. Someone cried out behind him, and the assassin knew his target and hurt an innocent bystander. He thought of the miner in the tunnel and anger filled his vision, fueling his lungs and coursing through his legs as he ran full tilt after the source of the arrow. People were dashing left and right in a panic, screaming and shouting and getting in Altair's way. All of it was only barely registering in the assassin's perception, his focus tight as an eagle as he advanced on the retreating form of Talal.

His sharp eyes at last spotted Talal's blue; he was not as nimble as Altair in navigating the crowds, the assassin was closing the distance.

"Guards! He's trying to kill me!" Altair watched in horror as two guards at the entrance of the _souk_ turned, drawing their swords and readying to critically block Altair from his target. It was catastrophe given form, he would lose Talal and the mission would be a failure. He couldn't let that happen!

A man, a merchant, bowled into one of the guards, knocking both over as another merchant joined the fray. Altair recognized the men as sons of the scholar. What were they doing? His momentum couldn't stop and he tripped over the four men. A third son appeared and helped the assassin up. "Go," he said, "Kill the slaver, we'll handle the guards."

And Altair had no time to lose, no time to nod or give thanks or understand why the brothers were risking their lives, their freedom, to help him. He could only turn and run after Talal, unaware that the merchant had seen his face, the shock and gratitude in his eyes. It was enough for the merchant turned vigilante.

Altair ran south, reading the crowd's surprise or watching fallen people get up to see where Talal had run. His entire body was covered in sweat. Midafternoon was the hottest part of the day and he was maintaining a full run over the entire city at this rate. He felt like his body was radiating fire but he shoved it all aside. The sudden shade of an alley blinded him and a crate banged into his shins, knocking him down. It served as sheer dumb luck, however, as he heard the high pitched twang of a bow release an arrow. He got up in a run and chased after Talal.

His target was slower, the heat was affecting him just as much as Altair, and without people or guards or other obstructions he at last closed the distance, leaping up and landing on his target, his hidden blade contracting and at last tasting blood.

He was panting now, nauseous from overheating, and relieved.

"You've nowhere to run now," he breathed. "Share your secrets with me."

Talal smiled, his chest heaving for air he would soon no longer need. "My part is played," he gasped. "The brotherhood is not so weak that my death will stop its work."

Another man of cryptic words. Altair demanded, "What brotherhood?"

Talal still smiled, his head lolling back for a moment before lifting it again. "Al Mualim is not the only one with designs upon the Holy Land." He saw Altair's intent eyes, and his smile grew even wider. "And that's all you'll have from me."

"... Then we are finished. Beg forgiveness from your god."

An outright laugh gurgled out of the dying man's lips. "He's long abandoned us. Long abandoned the men and women I took into my arms." Blood rolled out of his mouth and he coughed, life essence struggling to hold on.

"What do you mean?" Altair asked. How could a slaver think of his stock like that?

Wandering, unfocused eyes locked onto Altair. "Beggers, whores, addicts, lepers; do they strike you as proper slaves? Unfit to do the most menial tasks? No. I took them, not to sell, but to save. And yet you'd kill us all, for no other reason than it was asked of you."

Altair felt suddenly uncomfortable. Nausea was overtaking him; he had not seen the stock and could not prove the veracity of his target's claim. He shook his head, denying the man's words. "No! You profit from the war, from lives lost and broken."

"Yes," Talal gasped, "You would think that, ignorant as you are. Wall off your mind; they say it's what your kind do best. Do you not see the irony in this?"

Altair glared.

"No, not yet it seems. But you will..."

Altair dipped the feather in the blood. He just put it away when he heard, "There they are!"

Would nothing go well today? Exhausted and overheated, Altair ran down the alley away from the body, taking a sharp turn and hopping onto a pile of crates, to a beam and hoisted himself onto a roof, dashing before dropping down a level and diving into a sky garden. He waited for the guards to pass, only three that he could hear, before taking out his water skin and drinking its entire contents. He needed to cool down before he suffered heat stroke.

It took much longer than he liked to get his breathing under control and lose the burning feeling in his cheeks. His muscles ached and when he took stock of himself he saw he was a mess. Blood from the fight in the warehouse splattered his clothes - not a lot, but enough for a guard to look twice - and sweat stained everything. The elbow of his sleeve was torn from when the guard had plowed into him. There was a gash there, but not deep. His shins hurt, too, but nothing was serious.

Altair risked peaking out, the midafternoon sun bright and boiling. He would have to wait until the shadows were deeper. He leaned back into the garden, settling in. As the quiet surrounded the roof Altair reflected on the disaster of the mission. He cursed that he had not scouted the barbican himself, did not find out the layout of the interior of the warehouse. He could have placed journeymen or apprentices along the roofs to the _souk_ , or taken care of the guards with a distraction, _something_.

Talal himself was also a source of consternation. Another hint that the murders he was committing were connected, another hint of a greater purpose that these men were working towards. Tamir and Talal provided supplies for Garnier, but where did Garnier's work go when they survived his experiments? Talal spoke of a brotherhood and their designs upon the Holy Land. However, he denied he was selling slaves and instead he was saving them. Why would a slave trader help anyone other than himself? What was he missing? He hoped Al Mualim would help him to make sense of it.

Once the shadows were long enough, Altair crept out of the sky garden and looked around. There were no guards in sight and Altair debated for all of a breath before doubling back to the _souk_. He had to see what happened to the merchant sons of the scholar. He kept to the shadows, the assassin's ear open and his eyes taking in everything. The scholar was there, he found, talking to his oldest in intense tones. The youngest had been arrested, it seemed. Altair winced to hear it, and slipped deeper into the shadows, thinking.

His first instinct was to brush it off, to say it was none of his concern, but it simply wasn't true, and the assassin could not ignore it. He hoped to save the vigilante in some way, but his apprenticeship in Jerusalem had ended five years ago. He did not know the guard patrols, and after his exertion that afternoon he was in no condition to stage a rescue. He would have to tell Malik, ask that he be saved and hope the _dai_ could see past his anger. With that in mind, he turned south and ghosted his way to the Bureau.

It was twilight when he finally arrived. He was exhausted as he jumped into the closed in courtyard, startling an apprentice.

"Altair, you are all right!" he said, obviously relieved. "The alarm stopped hours ago, we were worried-"

"Altair, wonderful to see you return to us," Malik said in expansive tones, leaning against the doorframe. "And... How fared the mission?"

The demoted assassin stepped into the back room, following Malik to the counter. Several journeymen and apprentices were hovering around the chessboard or writing reports at a table. None of them were subtle in their eavesdropping - not that they needed to. Altair pulled out the bloody feather.

"The deed is done. Talal is dead."

"Oh, I know, I know," Malik said, nodding sagely before his face twisted into something else. "In fact, _the entire city knows!_ " he roared, making everyone but Altair startle. "Have you forgotten the meaning of _subtlety_?"

To exhausted to think, Altair bristled and dug his heels in.

"A skilled assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many," he said, willing his voice to stay calm.

"No!" Malik countered, a finger rising up to shake at Altair. "A skilled assassin maintains control of his environment."

And the last thing Altair needed was Malik to point out how disastrous the mission had turned out when he already knew it. The demoted assassin was fed up. "We can argue the details all you like, Malik, but the fact remains I've accomplished the task set to me by Al Mualim."

The _dai_ stared at him, and Altair held the gaze, tension radiating off of them. The others in the room watched very carefully. Malik could not argue the fact and Altair knew it. Malik did, too, and at last he leaned back, his face full of contempt.

"... Go then. Return to the old man. Let us see with whom he sides."

"I will," Altair said, "but first I've a vigilante to rescue."

A murmur sounded from behind them, and Altair spun around, ready for another verbal attack. "What?" he demanded.

An apprentice, the one who had been waiting for him, nervously stepped forward. "Do... do you mean the merchant? A scholar is his father?" he asked, his voice high pitched.

Altair frowned. "Yes," he said. "How do you know of him?"

"I saw the arrest," he stuttered, uncomfortable with everyone's eyes on him. "I did not think much of it, save that he said he was returning a favor you had done him." His last words were almost a whisper.

Malik snorted. "And since when do you grant anyone favors?" he growled.

Altair turned, his face hard. "When I entered the city I saved a scholar from being killed by city guards. He was searching for his brother who died in a mine." Malik's face changed, reading something in Altair he did not want to be seen but the demoted assassin ignored it. "He and his sons were grateful, they helped me enter the city and cleaned my clothes and gave me coin." He reached into his pack and pulled out the unused money, turning and tossing it to the apprentice. "Here," he said, "Use it to free the youngest son. He should not suffer for a kind deed."

The apprentice dashed off before anyone could argue, and Altair turned back to the head of the Bureau.

"... You and I are on the same side, Malik," he said slowly, his voice rough in exhaustion.

No one bothered him as he went to the courtyard to fall asleep. He had a long ride ahead of him.

* * *

Altair lingered in the stables, brushing down his horse. There were so many thoughts running around in his head he felt as though the entire war was happening underneath his skull. Jerusalem had brought up many unhappy memories, spurred vicious fights with the man who had once been Altair's only friend, hinted at greater designs amongst the men he was killing - and most heavily of all - made him realize just how at fault he was for the events that had lead up to all of this. The ride had been exhausting because of his thoughts, and now all he wanted to do was hide in the stables, for he dreaded entering the gates of Masyaf.

... An assassin was never weak, however, and so he finally put his dread aside with the brush and entered the town.

The people themselves had not changed since that day. Their focus was on rebuilding, fixing the burned buildings and aiding those who had lived in them, taking stock of what had been lost and sharing what had been salvaged with those less fortunate. Their lives were small, in a way, for they did not need to concern themselves with anything that wasn't within the valley.

The assassins, however, now that was a different story.

As Altair made his way up the main path, the steep incline working his legs, a _rafiq_ passed by and spat where he walked. An older _dai_ stood directly in his way and glared at him from underneath a thick matt of grey hair. The higher up the mountain he climbed the more Altair could hear laughter just outside of his vision. Gate guards no longer bowed to him but deliberately turned their heads, disgusted at the sight of him.

Entering the fortress, Altair glanced discretely around and found relief at failing to see Abbas; the man took great joy in dogging him whenever he was home, throwing insult and barbed words at him, safe in the knowledge that Altair could do nothing to him. The training ring was surrounded with novices and apprentices; two were in the ring swinging wildly at each other with no precision or efficiency. The demoted assassin stayed back, watching from a distance. He was about to turn to enter the keep when he heard his name.

"Altair!"

He froze, turning back to the ring to see Rauf pushing his way towards the assassin. "It's good to see you, brother!" he said in bright tones.

"I have just now returned," Altair responded, eying the crowd warily. Many looked at him with dark eyes. "Do you know if the Master is free?"

"He is not," Rauf said, shaking his head. "Several letters came from Jabal in Acre, and no doubt it contains news of Richard and Salah ad-Din. He meets with others to discuss what the next course of action is."

"Very well," Altair said, "I shall not keep you further." He would simply go to his room and wait. Being out did him little good these days.

Rauf's eyes narrowed, once more picking up on something Altair wanted to remain hidden. "Altair," he said, "It seems my students do not know what it is to wield a blade. Perhaps you could show them what you know?"

"They are already in the best of hands," Altair replied, raising a hand to deflect the offer. "I doubt there is more I can add."

"A lot can be gained from watching a battle between two masters," Rauf said, "And you need it as much as my students."

The sword master all but dragged Altair to the ring, pulling him in as the apprentices and novices and a handful of journeymen watched, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves. "All right you amateurs," Rauf said, "It's time you saw what a real swordfight looks like." He leaned into Altair's ear. "Start off with a textbook fight," he whispered, "when I give the signal, we will change."

The demoted assassin nodded and drew his sword, Rauf doing the same. Their sword tips touched, and that was all the greeting they gave each other before Rauf lead with a quick, precise swing. Altair deflected; their moves started slow and consistent. He could hear the novices watching, whispers and pointing. He shook his head slightly, putting it from his mind and focusing on the gentle sword master.

They moved through all the major swings and deflects and parries, their motion quick and precise and elegant. That changed quite suddenly when Rauf ducked to the side and threw a punch into Altair's chin, the signal to fight for real. Grinning, Altair made an aggressive swing at Rauf, the master moving to dodge before Altair pulled back his feint and instead kicked the man in the gut. A lesser man would have fallen to the ground but Rauf shuffled back and brought his sword up to deflect the next swing. Altair took it in stride and shoved his shoulder into Rauf's defense, the man giving even more ground before landing on the ground and pulling up into a tight roll, his sword coming up at an angle that surprised Altair and made the assassin jump backwards.

A cry of surprise filled Altair's ear, but he ignored it, blocking another strike and giving ground himself. The rail blocked him from retreating further, and he leapt onto the thin wooden beam, the crowds quickly backing away from the fight. Altair leapt over the next swing, springboarding off of Rauf's shoulder and landing behind him, kicking the sword master in the back, into the rail, and grabbing a shoulder and throwing him to the ground. Rauf kicked Altair in the behind when he moved in for the killing strike, and the demoted assassin tumbled forward, rolling to his feet and ready for the next strike.

Rauf held up a hand. Both were panting slightly, and Altair found himself grinning.

The teacher turned to the crowds. "The work of a master," he said brightly. "Here, the battles are choreographed, to develop your muscles and to sharpen your memory, the ring is a boundary for your body and your mind, but in real battle anything and everything could happen, and that is what you must be wary off. Now, you," he said, pointing to a novice, "Come into the ring."

A hoodless boy, squeaking as he realized he had been singled out, carefully climbed over the rail and into the ring.

Rauf stood back. "Attack him," he said, "with everything I have taught you."

The boy squeaked again, looking up to Altair, before the color completely drained from his face. "I... I can't," he whispered. "He will kill me."

"No, he won't," Rauf said, a knowing smirk on his face. "It is not in his nature."

"Yes it is," someone grumbled, further back in the crowd.

The novice took some coaxing but took a tentative swing at Altair. He deflected it easily, and the novice trembled, waiting for the counter strike. Rauf stepped in, correcting footwork and posture, and the boy struck again, and Altair again deflected. By the fifth strike the novice felt comfortable enough to actually listen to Rauf's advice, and his strikes became much better. Once Rauf was satisfied, he called in another, this time an apprentice, practicing different strike. This boy was tentative only on the first strike, the rest were controlled and improved greatly with Rauf's brilliant teaching.

By the end of the day, Altair's arms were soar, and the crowd had doubled in size. Rauf was not the only one to give advice, Altair often paused the sword master to mention some small piece of advice or experience to improve a student's work. Rauf drank it up, using his small, soft-spoken sentences to turn them into entire lessons, speaking to the entire crowd.

"One last student," Rauf said, bringing up a young journeyman.

Altair saw the bloodlust in his eyes, and knew this was the one from the crowd that thought he would kill a Brother. No sooner had he stepped into the ring that he ran forward and attacked Altair. The assassin had time to shove Rauf aside before blocking the strike, letting the sword slide along and moving the energy away from him. He spun around behind the journeyman, sword up but he instead threw in a kidney punch. The young man grunted but spun around, another obvious strike that Altair threw aside, grabbing the man and throwing him over his shoulder; the journeyman landed hard on his back and Altair slammed his foot into the man's chest, knocking the sword out of his hand and holding his own at his throat.

The journeyman panted, his eyes furious.

"Your moves are obvious," Altair said. "You would do better to feint, or perhaps use the short sword instead, you are fast enough."

The journeyman's response was to spit up at Altair and shove his foot aside, surprising the crowd. He got up with impressive speed, but Altair was quicker and the demoted assassin circled around the uppercut and kicked the young man in the behind, sending him tripping over the rail of the ring. Rauf grabbed the journeyman, restraining him.

"Let me go," he growled. "Let me go! He's responsible for the death of my father! He died in the attack on Masyaf, it's all his fault!"

Rauf struck him in the back of the head at a sensitive spot, sending the journeyman to his knees, holding his head. "So foolish," Rauf growled, kicking the man in the abdomen. "Do you think every assassin is perfect?" he admonished. "Do you think no one makes mistakes when they are promoted? Striving for perfection is different from ever achieving it, because it cannot be done! Those that survive their mistakes are granted a golden opportunity: they have the opportunity to _learn_."

He hauled the journeyman to his feet, holding him inches from his face. " _You_ made a mistake attacking a Brother, but he was merciful enough to let you live. Learn from it, and know that I _will_ report this to the Master." Rauf shoved the man away, the journeyman stumbling before others helped him up and lead him away.

"I am sorry," Rauf said, "I did not think any stupid enough to do this."

Altair closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before releasing it. "True learning, it seems, is always a little painful," he said softly.

"There are many here that need to learn, then," Rauf said. "If you are not thrown to the desert again after meeting with Al Mualim, perhaps you can take some time in helping me teach them."

"... Yes," Altair said. Redemption came in many branches, it seemed, and Altair was determined to be a dutiful student.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hardest investigations to do are the pickpocketing and the eavesdropping ones because it's straight dictation and finding ways to take the sometimes out and out boring dialogue and make it even remotely interesting and integrated to the story rather than "here's one part of the game" was more than slightly hard. We can only hope they came out okay.
> 
> If you didn't get the hints before, we feel now would be an obvious time to point out that the reason this fic is rated M is not entirely because of Desmond's potty mouth, but because of Altair's violence. The game animations are downright brutal, ragdoll physics and computer blood splatter aside, and when we first played the game we both winced (and still wince) at the counter-kill where Altair bends an elbow in the opposite direction before killing a guard. Taking that and translating it to the written word does not soften the experience, Altair hits hard enough to get his weapons caught in bone for cryin' out loud, these are not fights for little kids. And this assassination is "light" on violence, wait 'til we get to the later ones...
> 
> We hope the definition/description of Eagle Vision is adequate. They never actually call it by name in the game, and while the Animus translates Eagle Vision as colors/auras, we didn't want to be limited to just that. We hope it makes sense.
> 
> And we at last see some vigilantes. Putting them here was very deliberate, Talal's assassination is a pain in the rear if you try to do it without the vigilantes, and it served as a great writing tool to help Altair along his path. You'll see vigilantes again, though not for quite a while (knowing laughter). They also give Malik food for thought as he watched how Altair reacts to them, so we'll see how he is when a certain demoted assassin returns to Jerusalem. :D
> 
> We also toyed with how much we can hurt Altair. He always seems to come off these missions without a scratch, and given the end of the game we knew that there's no way in heck he can get through some of these assignments without sustaining SOME kind of damage, and so this time around we have nigh-on heat stroke among other small things we did, and it helps to give a sense of how superior Altair is to the city guards, but also that he isn't infallible.
> 
> As always, let us know what you think.
> 
> Next chapter: Desmond and Lucy. And a backstory.


	10. A Captured Captor

Desmond stared blankly at the visor and the ceiling, his mind sluggish and still half in his ancestor's headspace. Altair, a lot happened to him in that last memory, Desmond could still feel... he couldn't put a name to it but he could still feel Altair's emotions in the training ring. It faded slowly, and Desmond found his eyes burning. Did he want to cry or something? He reached a hand up to rub his face and realized belatedly that his body was sweating.

"Damn it. What's the problem now?" Vidic.

"I'm getting weird temperature readings. I think the Animus if overheating." Lucy.

As expected, Vidic did not take news of the delay well. He growled. "Christ! It's always _something_!" He threw his hands up in disgust, pacing for a moment before heaving a great sigh. "... How long?"

"Too soon to tell."

"These delays are unacceptable, Miss Stillman," he scolded; shaking a finger at her, his grizzled face irate. "I want progress report every hour!"

Desmond sat up slowly, watching Vidic storm out of the lab, his heavy footsteps echoing off the enormous white room. He saw that the normally blue lights of the Animus were red, the vibration of the curved table were stronger than normal, and it made an odd noise at odd intervals.

"It's gonna be a while, Desmond," Lucy said. "Why don't you lie down or something, get some rest."

He took the time to stretch his legs, a little wobbly still, and moved to his prison lav to wash the worst of the sweat off his face. Any thoughts of that died as he walked into his room. _What the hell?_ he thought, seeing the previously locked closet now wide open. _Someone's been in here._ He looked back into the cavernous main room, but Lucy was still typing away at the Animus, focused on her work. He moved further in and took a moment to just stare at the closet. His first thought was: At last! A change of clothes! Proper shower! And he started digging through the contents, pulling out towels and examining shelves. On one of the bottom ones he lifted a facecloth to see a scrap of paper. He paused a moment, frowning, but made sure his body blocked the cameras in the room as he pulled out the paper and looked at it. A series of numbers were written on it hurriedly in pencil. _Looks like some kind of access code_ , he realized. He stuffed it into his jean pocket while standing up, grabbing one of his pilfered towels and finishing his short journey to the washroom, trying to act natural as his brain fired back and forth over how someone had snuck into his room and given him that code. Lucy...? Not Vidic. Perhaps someone else...? He shook his head, cursing his lack of information. He couldn't even ask about it, all he could do was use it.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped back into the Animus room. The dinner tray had arrived and Desmond quickly grabbed a sandwich, sitting on the Animus and looking to the absorbed Lucy."... Why is he always yelling at you?" he asked. "It's _his_ machine."

"His _theories,_ " Lucy corrected, staring at the screen. "He's not the one who built it."

Oh. Then... "Who did? You?"

Lucy gave a short, amused laugh, turning to look at him. "No. Abstergo has a team of engineers... not much they _don't_ have," she added softly, looking away before looking at him again. "But I did oversee the assembly; I guess that's why he gets so angry."

"He's a _dick_ ," Desmond said, brushing off the old fart's attitude.

"He's under a lot of pressure," Lucy said, her face slightly stern. "...We all are."

"I can't believe you're defending the guy," he answered, shaking his head.

"Warren saved my life," Lucy said in a flat, serious tone, giving Desmond pause, "so if he wants to yell a little, let him."

Desmond shook his head slightly, not quite understanding. Not quite _believing_.

"What do you mean he saved your life?"

Lucy pulled away from the computer, her face a myriad of emotions. "... You're not the only one who doesn't get to go home at night."

... What?

"Wait, are you saying that _you're_ a prisoner?"

Lucy leaned against one of the stuffed leather chairs, staring off at nothing. "When they first approached me I was finishing up my PhD," she said. "The university had made it clear I had no future there. They didn't like the subject of my doctorate, called it pseudoscience, said keeping me on would discredit and embarrass them." She sighed deeply, her eyes locked on a memory, her voice despondent. "It was the same everywhere. Other universities, companies I interviewed with, pretty soon I was out of money and out of time. I was this close to waiting tables," she said, holding her fingers apart to show how close she had come. "Then I got a letter."

"From Vidic?" Desmond asked.

"He said he'd been following my career since undergrad, that he believed in my work and wanted to meet, to discuss my future. You have no idea how good it felt to hear that." Her face lit up at the thought, her voice light and airy. "So I met him, what did I have to lose?"

"And he offered you a job."

"Yes. Here at Abstergo, helping out on the Animus Project. I'd have the chance to test my theories and prove my professors wrong. How could I turn that down?" She looked at him, her eyes bright but also pained.

Desmond stared, trying to absorb it. "I think I'm missing the part where you become a prisoner."

"Sometimes I wonder..." she said, looking away suddenly. She crossed her legs. "If they weren't behind it all, if they manipulated events so that I'd get desperate. They can do that," she said, turning to look at Desmond with deep, meaningful eyes. "They can do _anything_." She looked away again, the pause drawing out, pregnant with implication.

She took a deep breath, at last, and continued. "I didn't think when I agreed to come here. They even told me I'd be trapped, for six months, a year max. Once the product launched there'd be no need for secrecy anymore. Until then, I'd be a 'guest' of the company. At least, that's what they said."

"... And when the Animus was ready?"

She shivered, from the cold of the room or the cold of the memory Desmond could only guess, and she pushed herself off the chair, walking up the steps of Vidic's dais to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her face was pained.

"... They came in while I was sleeping. Three guys. Guns. They dragged me out of bed... God..." She shivered again, a hand going to cover her face, rubbing her forehead and hiding from the pain. "The worst part is I _knew_ them. One guy, Richard, we ate lunch together sometimes, and now he was gonna..." Her voice broke off and she wiped her eyes before trying again. "They were cracking jokes. I tried to pull away, but he hit me. And that's when he told me I was going to die."

"Christ," Desmond whispered. "What did you do?" It was like some bad movie scene, or the opening of a crime drama.

"Nothing," Lucy said, her voice almost a whisper. Her hand finally left her face and Desmond could see the haunted look. "I kept telling myself it wasn't real. And then Warren was there, shouting at them to get away from me, and they listened."

"Jesus..." he said, and he pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. Her body stiffened, surprised, but for a brief moment she leaned into him, pressing her face into his chest, letting his sweatshirt get damp before she quickly pulled away, her watery eyes darting to the cameras. Desmond understood.

"He's not a _happy_ man, Desmond," she said after taking several minutes to get hold of herself. Her voice was finally strong. "I wouldn't even say he's a good man but he saved my life. They never came for me again, and he promised they never would."

"But... You're still stuck here working for these nut-jobs."

"But I'm alive," Lucy answered, her eyes were bright but they were also strong. There was something in them Desmond could see but not understand, a message he was missing. It was gone in a flash, however, and the blond suddenly turned away, back down the dais. "Anyway, I really do need to get the Animus repaired. See you tomorrow, Desmond."

Desmond followed her back to the Animus, picking up his sandwich to finish it and cleaning it up. He watched Lucy for a long time as she worked, trying to assimilate what he just learned. He'd break her out, too, he vowed to himself. She deserved better than this.

The first step to that was using the access code.

Nodding with the decision, he hopped off when he was done and moved back to his prison room. He paused at the door, turning and looking back to the blond. "Lucy..." he started.

She looked up, and Desmond was at a loss as to what to say after hearing her story.

She must have seen something in his helpless look, and she gave a soft smile, sweet and beautiful, before turning back to the screen.

* * *

Desmond waited three hours before trying out the code, parked by the door with his ear pressed to it and listening to the hourly reports Lucy gave. An hour after the fix, he tried out his mysterious access key and found his assumption was right, it worked on the door and he was loose in the giant lab room. The code did not work on either the door Vidic stormed out of every night, nor did it work for the door to the observation room. Still a prisoner.

He cursed very creatively at that, feeling more than slightly ungrateful to his unknown benefactor, before he walked by the curves of the Animus and saw a pen with light on the cap. This was the ID thingy from yesterday's email. He glanced at the cameras, but they were probably already watching him anyway, and with a mental finger to the stupid red lights he nicked it, going over to the Animus computer and plugging it in. It automatically logged him on as Lucy, and he spend the next two hours going over every file and program he felt safe in opening to find nothing useful. There were no new additions, and not even a DOS window for him to try and code some kind of key-logger - not that he could make one from scratch but he was willing to try anything at this rate.

Frowning, he clicked on the email program to see if there was anything he could glean from it.

Lucy had forwarded an email to several people asking about Leila, the girl Vidic had threatened her with on his first day of captivity (was it really two days ago? It felt like a lifetime...). One person said they weren't at liberty to discuss the case, and Vidic of course brushed the whole thing aside, saying it was a suicide over some boy. Desmond, like Lucy, was disinclined to believe the old fart just on principal, and if the autopsy was sealed like Lucy said in her email then it was all the more damning.

Vidic's computer was still locked, Desmond was determined to pick the dick's pocket tomorrow, and with no other alternative, he went back to his room, showering with his newfound luxury of towels before throwing his jeans back on (with the access code and pen in those pockets, there were never leaving his eyesight) and crawling into bed.

He was like Altair, in a sense. He understood the gravity of his situation, of the situation of people _around_ him, and he was determined to be diligent.

His last thought before he fell asleep was to wonder when he started thinking of his ancestor by name.

* * *

_eagle vision leads to ANSWERS leads to questions leads to sense and scents and cents it makes no sense to anyone but me so all the answers must be left for the next for seventeen for the sun for the son for the future let the vision be open think of eagles and opening doors and brain cases and less than ten percent of the human brain is used but this part needs to be accessed because it's where the ANSWERS are hidden eagles see everything see blood see people see messages see invisible threads that connect it all together running out of time not enough blood to write everything and still need to code it picture places things memories go further back to the beginning and forward to the end that can't be an end_

He jolted awake, reaching for some dream that was important, reaching for eagles... but fell back asleep in an instant.

* * *

Desmond heard the slide of his cell door open, and there were the quick, almost light steps. It woke him up swiftly, since he didn't ever care for anyone coming into his room unannounced. Something he'd learned from childhood.

"Rise and shine," Vidic said in an excited voice. "We've got quite a day ahead of us," he added cheerily.

"You're in a good mood this morning," Desmond commented, getting up. He grabbed the fresh and clean t-shirt and sweatshirt he had pulled from his closet the previous night and shrugged them on.

"Miss Stillman has made some modifications to the Animus," he said gleefully. "You should be able to stay inside even longer now."

Desmond decidedly did _not_ like the sound of that.

"And help you with your treasure hunt," Desmond added. Because that felt like all it was for Vi _dick_. A damn treasure hunt with Desmond doing all the work like some Indiana Jones. Never mind that Desmond (and Lucy) had been kidnapped from their lives.

He rubbed the back of his head. This wasn't about anger or frustration. This was about him getting War _den_ to talk. And if he was so giddy, he'd hopefully spill like a gossip hound.

"This is serious business, Mr. Miles." Vidic replied coldly. Then he grinned smugly. "I don't think you appreciate the work that Abstergo does."

Desmond gave his own smug grin. "Maybe because I don't actually know what you people do," he jibed.

"We change the world," Vidic said expansively. Desmond held back a triumphant smile. "Every day, in a hundred different ways." He started pacing. "Did you know that nearly every single breakthrough of the past millennium, be it medical, mechanical, or philosophical, has come from Abstergo, or its predecessors?"

Desmond took a moment to absorb that.

A _millennium_? Back in 1012? That would make everything people advanced in from the Renaissance, the Dark Ages, even in Altair's time. That was a lot of history for Abstergo, yet they never showed in the history books.

So Desmond resorted to skeptical prisoner. "That's a bold claim, Doc. Think you might be exaggerating a bit?" he asked, getting up.

"Not in the slightest," Vidic said confidently. "Oh, we certainly don't take the credit," he sipped his coffee, "that would arouse _far_ too much suspicion. We choose our beneficiaries with great care."

God complex. Dictator. Desmond couldn't stand it. But he didn't let any of it show. Instead he raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Vidic smiled. "It means _we're_ in control."

Desmond arranged his face to skeptical again, though he knew from Lucy's story and his own just how in control they were. "But how?" He gestured vaguely. "What makes you guys so special, so smart? That you happened to invent all these things while we mere mortals stumble around like idiots?" Because that _was_ a lot to swallow.

Vidic looked into his coffee mug. "To be fair, we don't invent them." He looked down his nose to Desmond. "We find them."

"...Find them?"

"They're gifts, Mr. Miles," Vidic said quietly, almost reverently. "From Those Who Came Before."

Desmond started at him, incomprehensibly.

"We'll have to continue this discussion later," Vidic turned and was back to being the smug, smarmy bastard Desmond was used to. "Time's wasting," he added.

He followed, his head awhirl with Those Who Came Before and _what the hell did that mean_? But he did focus enough to casually brush against Vidic as they left his room and pocketed the access pen smoothly into the sleeve of his shirt, holding it in place under his watch. Then he rubbed his head in confusion.

Those Who Came Before?

Again: _What the hell_?

"Morning, Desmond," Lucy greeted, acting like nothing had happened the previous day. Like she hadn't dragged out a painful memory and relived it.

"Ugh..." he rubbed his head vigorously. "Hi..."

She glanced at him, in concern, but he shook his head slightly, indicating for her not to worry. He just had a _lot_ more information that he was expecting and it was making his head spin.

Did he just get off the ship into a sci-fi movie?

Those Who Came Before? Like, what... aliens? Who was here before humans that left the advances that people had done (found?) over the centuries? He sat down in one of the cushy chairs and started to dig into his breakfast, his mind awhirl with more questions than he'd ever had since arriving here, and none of them actually pertinent to his current situation.

Desmond numbly ate his breakfast, the weight of things beyond his comprehension pulling at him as he tried to just sort through it.

In the end, he decided to just think about it later.

Perhaps tonight, after he'd accessed Vidic's computer and learned all he could there, then he could ponder Who The Hell Came Before.

_Eagles see invisible threads that connect it all together._

Desmond didn't know where that thought came from, but he thought of how Altair had somehow seen what others could not in the dark slaver warehouse. And really, Desmond could use that skill now. See things here in the lab that he could use, see details that would give him ideas, see _something_ to help his utterly hopeless situation.

Taking another gulp of milk, he thought of how Altair had reached for that strange vision. Of focusing on the sharp sight of an eagle and reaching for something in his own mind.

Nothing happened.

Naturally.

Desmond sighed and went back to eating. That was when he really noticed his breakfast.

Two huge bagels, three muffins, a large bowl of cereal and three slices of toast to go with his glasses of milk and orange juice.

"Should I be saying thanks for the big breakfast?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Lucy didn't look at him directly. "You'll be needing it today," she replied quietly.

Right. Staying in the Animus even longer... Desmond wondered what exactly "longer" entailed.

"Lie down, damn it!" Vidic growled.

Desmond leaned back to spite the bastard and settled in to finish sipping his juice and milk. He'd just had a big breakfast and he needed a minute to let it all settle. Lucy flicked an amused glance in his direction and Desmond looked down to hide a smile.

Once he downed the last of his liquids, Lucy smiled gently and said, "Let's get started."

And for her, Desmond got onto the Animus and lay down.

* * *

The white foggy room surrounded Desmond and he looked down at Altair's clothes. It was always strange to see himself dressed as his ancestor, but this felt stranger because after Altair's visit to Jerusalem, Desmond actually _understood_ his ancestor. Altair was, in many ways, lost and directionless. He had a job, he had a purpose, but he had messed up so badly he could no longer find his balance. What Altair had done and done well for his entire life, he now no longer knew how to do because the way he had always done it was no longer acceptable. Indeed, it was dangerous.

Desmond could get that in a very different sort of way. He had abandoned his Assassin heritage, left everything behind save what he needed to stay hidden, and now he was looking at trying to call up long forgotten knowledge for survival and escape. Where Altair had a direction but no clue how, Desmond had a goal but no clue how.

Shaking his head to remove these thoughts, he pulled out Altair's sword. That weapons master Rauf had spent a lot of time with Altair and training the novices and apprentices. Desmond swung the sword experimentally, trying to remember what that week had been like and how the moves went. Turning, he focused on a floating chemical diagram and tried to mimic a swing.

The swing was clumsy, even to Desmond's eye, but th _e counter strike was perfe_ ct and Desmond's sword passed harmlessly through the diagram.

"Whoa." It seemed that week of training with Rauf had given him some level of muscle memory of how Altair fought.

...Sort of.

Desmond wasn't sure he could do that again.

Seeing another symbol floating in the fog he turned to make a swing and try and feel the right way to do it when the fog dissipated and he found himself standing once more at the base of the mountain of Masyaf.

With a sigh, Desmond started making his way up the mountain to go find that master-guy. The nostalgia, unsurprisingly, got stronger the closer he got to the fortress. Once he was in the compound walls, an echo of Abbas was com _ing up to him, in a foul temper as always._

* * *

Altair did not appreciate seeing Abbas, any more than the foul tempered man appeared to appreciate seeing him. So Altair avoided conflict and ignored him, heading down to the training ring so that he and Rauf could continue with the lesson they had left off with the previous day.

"Ah, Altair," the gentle swordmaster called. "Your timing is excellent."

"No it's not," Abbas growled, his long strides catching up to the demoted assassin. "The Master wishes to speak with him now."

Altair frowned. He had been trying to see Al Mualim for a week to no avail. It was almost routine. He would stop by the library to see if the Master was free, only to be told that he was busy. So Altair would go down to the training ring, see Rauf and start knocking down the novices, apprentices, journeymen, and even assassins who wished for a bout. Altair would have liked to think that the novices had improved since he's started helping with the teaching, but he curbed such thoughts, not wishing his arrogance to get the better of him as it already had.

"I apologize, Rauf," he nodded his head to the swordmaster.

Rauf shrugged. "You must be busy. I understand." He smiled, however. "I look forward to you having time with me in the ring again."

Altair smiled. "I as well. Safety and peace."

"Safety and peace."

Abbas growled something unpleasant under his breath and Altair ignored him as he headed to the fortress, since he knew it irritated his fellow assassin all the more.

Al Mualim was once more in the library and he nodded as Altair walked by a scholar.

"Come in, Altair," he said, looking up from his desk. "You have done well. Three of the nine lay dead, and for this, you have my thanks," he smiled and Altair saw a flicker of pride. Then the Teacher's face flattened. "But do not think to rest upon your laurels," he said, leaning over his table. "Your work has just begun."

"I am yours to command, Master." Altair bowed his head lower than he ever had before. He understood his mistakes now. And he showed his regret and sorrow and desire for redemption by showing more deference than he had. Because Al Mualim was right. He had erred. Badly.

Al Mualim nodded, understanding the silent message.

"King Richard, emboldened by his victory in Acre prepares to move south towards Jerusalem," he explained. "Salah ad-Din is surely aware of this and so he gathers his men before the broken citadel of Arsuf."

"Would you have me kill them both then," Altair offered. "End their war before it begins in earnest?"

"No," the Master said softly, yet firmly. "To do so would scatter their forces and subject the realm to the bloodlust of ten-thousand aimless warriors. It will be many days before they meet, and while they march, they _do not fight_."

Altair nodded, seeing the logic in this. The purpose was for peace and as long as the armies were busy chasing each other, there was no needless bloodshed. Al Mualim had never shared his reasons before, only his orders, and Altair appreciated that he could now see the thought process behind what Al Mualim was saying.

Al Mualim continued, "You must concern yourself with a more immediate threat. The men who pretend to govern in their absence."

Altair blinked, not seeing the logic for this. But one never questioned the Master.

"Give me names and I'll give you blood."

"So I will," the Teacher nodded. "Abu'l Nuqoud, the wealthiest man in Damascus; Majd Addin, regent of Jerusalem; William of Monteferrat, liege lord of Acre."

Cities he had already been to. Altair nodded, knowing the familiarity he had with each city, save Damascus, would help him. And even in Damascus, he was an unknown face, an advantage.

"What are their crimes," he asked, wishing to see the logic behind these victims and if there was a link between them and Tamir, Garnier, and Talal.

"Greed, arrogance, the slaughter of innocents," Al Mualim answered, his eyes cold as he looked aside to something only he could see. He turned to Altair again. "Walk amongst the people of their cities. You'll learn the secrets of their sins." Al Mualim spoke firmly, "Do not doubt that these men are obstacles to the peace we seek."

As if Altair could ever doubt the Master.

"Then they will die," he stated.

Al Mualim nodded with approval. "Another of your items is restored. Take it. See that it is put to good use. Return to me as each man falls, that we might better understand their intentions. Start in Damascus," he said, opening a pigeon coop and letting three birds fly out the open window. "I sense something is happening there and is the most urgent of the three."

Altair nodded, turning to go.

"And Altair."

He turned.

"Your recent work has likely attracted the attention of the city guard. They'll be more suspicious than they've been in the past."

Altair bowed, trying hard not to think of Malik scolding him for being so public in his work in Jerusalem.

With a soft sigh, Altair pushed such thoughts aside. He had a journey to prepare for.

* * *

Damascus was, by far, the hottest of the three cities that he would visit. The nearest body of water, save the Barada River, was weeks away by horseback. Summer was settling in and the stone buildings reflected the sun's rays, radiating heat even hotter than the desert. The dry season left many seeking the various fountains throughout the city, for any source of refreshment that could alleviate the heavy heat.

Altair walked slowly through the shaded alleys to conserve his energy as midday continued to get even hotter. A small part of him hoped that the usual lethargy one had during such weather would dull Ibtisam's tongue when he arrived at the Bureau, but that was a childish and hopeless wish. He took a sip of water from his water-skin as he strolled down a row of houses and wiped the sweat from his brow. Once he was certain no one was watching, he climbed the ladder and dropped into the Bureau's courtyard.

Ibtisam looked up from a pot he was painting, looking faintly surprised. "Altair, my friend, welcome, welcome!" he said warmly with a large smile.

Altair knew just how insincere that friendly greeting was.

The _rafiq_ put down his brush and leaned back. "I hear you were recently with my best student. I suppose I really should thank you," he said lightly. "Malik was promoted to _dai_ because you ensured the loss of his arm. Imagine, my brightest student with the most potential a _dai_ at such a young age. Really, I thank you, Altair."

Altair accepted the insult, knowing that he had earned it. "Malik is already a good Brother. He will do well in any placement the Master deems fitting," he said, not knowing how else to respond.

Ibtisam raised an eyebrow, but changed the subject. "Tell me, who's life have you come to collect today?" He reached under the counter to pull out a book.

"His name is Abu'l Nuqoud," Altair answered promptly. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Oh," Ibtisam said in slight awe. "The merchant king of Damascus, richest man in the city, quite exciting!"

Altair frowned. Did Ibtisam not get the messenger pigeon or was he being facetious?

"Quite dangerous," Ibtisam continued with a wide smile and cold eyes. "I envy you, Altair. Well, not the bit where you were beaten and stripped of your rank..."

Beaten? Altair reached back in memory, but he had endured no beating at all. The only thing that came close was when Al Mualim had supposedly stabbed him. But Altair had checked under his robes. He had born no injuries from that encounter. No bruising, no stab wound, nothing. He hadn't been beaten. Gossip could not have exaggerated the story so far, could it? And even gossip was always started by something true. What had Al Mualim done in that one moment when Altair was certain that he was dying? What did everyone else see while Altair watched his blood drain and felt death's embrace? Because he bore no marks, nothing had happened physically. But what sorcery had Altair think he had been dying and others think he had been beaten?

"But I envy everything else," Ibtisam was saying cheerfully. "Oh, except for the terrible things the other assassins say about you, but yes, aside from failure and the hatred, yes, aside from those things? I envy you very much!"

Altair shook aside the doubt and questioning. Shook aside the distraction and the memories. "I do not care what the others think or say. I am here to do a job. So I ask again, what can you tell me about the merchant king?" Because if everything else was questionable, Altair's mission was _not_. So he focused on it.

Ibtisam shrugged. "Only that he must be a very bad man if Al Mualim has sent you to see him." He picked up his brush and went back to his pot. "He keeps to his own kind, wrapped in the finery of the city's noble district," he gestured with the brush. "A busy man, always up to something. I'm sure if you spent some time amongst his type you'll learn all you need to know about him."

Altair nodded, understanding that Ibtisam would offer no help.

Again.

"And where would you have me begin my search?"

"If I were you, I'd start with the Umayyad Mosque and _souk_ in _Sarouja_ , both of which are west of here. Further to the northwest is Salah ad-Din's citadel. It's a popular meeting spot and has proved a reliable source of loose tongues in the past. Yes, these three places should serve your needs."

Altair bowed his head respectfully. "My thanks for your guidance, _rafiq_. I'll return when I've gathered the necessary information."

Ibtisam looked surprised for a brief moment, but it was gone in a blink.

Knowing he wasn't welcome here, Altair turned to leave and start his work.

"A moment, Altair."

He turned.

Ibtisam's face had lost it's light-hearted sarcasm and he was looking seriously for the first time at the demoted assassin. "Last time, you would not stay at this Bureau."

Altair shrugged. He knew he was not welcomed here.

Ibtisam crossed his arms. "That is unacceptable, Altair. This is a place of safety for the Brotherhood. Even for you."

Altair sighed, and looked away. "That you would do as Al Mualim asks is to your credit. But you and the others here do not desire my presence. I will not be far away."

The _rafiq_ frowned before putting on his easy smile once again. "Yes, I can see why the other assassins say you are so arrogant. But do not worry, Altair. I will defend you."

There was no winning with this _rafiq_. "You need not," he replied. "I care not what others think or say." Turning, he climbed to the roof and jumped to another row of buildings to begin his work.

It was midday and Altair doubted he would get any useful information for the remainder of the day. Instead, because of his unfamiliarity with Damascus, he decided to spend his time ascending heights to map out the district. He started north of the Barada River, slowly making his way west. He made good time as many down in the streets and even the some of the city guards were still in the Duhr prayer time and Altair had no problems ascending a minaret to start studying the noble districts layout.

He stayed up there for some time, sketching his maps and avoiding thoughts on where he would stay that evening and thoughts of what had happened back when Al Mualim had used some sorcery to appear to stab him. It was draining and the sun did not help matters, but at least this high up, there was a steady breeze.

Entering the Citadel from the east was the easiest, as he remembered vaguely from letters from Malik back when they had first been apprenticed to their cities, back before they had lost contact and Malik had changed.

Altair paused.

Really, Malik hadn't changed. His tongue was sharper and he was angrier after the debacle in Solomon's Temple, but it had been Altair who had changed. He had suffered heartache and betrayal so he had hidden behind the one thing he was good at. Killing. He had created a wall with his skill and became arrogant.

With a sigh, Altair set his charcoal back to his map. He did not have the time to think of these things. He had a job to do.

He has just finished sketching out the interior of the citadel, leaping from rooftop to rooftop to check his map and decided to leave through the southern gate. He saw beams high above the guards heads which would be easy for him to use.

He paused on a beam before actually leaving, however.

"There is no one more generous than Abu'l Nuquod!" A herald was calling out from a podium in front of the citadel. "Every week he opens his doors to the people of Damascus that they may lay down their burdens and know joy."

Altair could not keep a satisfied smile off his face. He had not been expecting to find any information that day, but now it looked like he had a start.

"Our days may be dark, but thanks to him, our evenings are now filled with light. The merchant king provides for one and all. He asks for nothing in return. Let his generosity serve as an example to us all. Everyone should strive to be as he!"

The herald paused, Asr prayers starting as the streets emptied as people headed to the mosque. The town crier took a breath and started heading to the citadel. Altair watched as he passed under him. Altair retraced his steps to the roofs and dropped down silently into the alley that the herald was walking down.

Reaching out, Altair grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked, cutting off both air and throwing him off balance and delivered a vicious kick to the ribs. The man was down and Altair held his foot to the man's throat while his other foot held a wrist.

"I'll talk, I'll talk!" The man choked out.

Altair relieved the pressure on the man's neck. Slightly.

"I've no interest in dying for him," the crier coughed. "His coin is not worth my life."

In the back of his mind, Altair wondered if this was another man like Thomas, who needed to be saved.

"A wise decision," Altair intoned.

"What is it you want?"

"I have business with the merchant king."

"Ha!" the man gasped a laugh. "Good luck with _that_." Altair put more pressure on the man's neck. "The man rarely leaves his chambers," he said, far more helpful this time.

"Why?" Altair asked quietly and with menace. "Is he afraid?"

"Not fear. _Hate_ ," the herald replied. "He hates himself as much as he hates the people he pretends to serve. Locks himself away in his personal quarters out of shame."

"He can't stay hidden forever," Altair prompted.

"No. Those celebrations of his, he comes out to speak. To look down upon the people. A sense of belonging, I suppose," the herald replied, "however brief."

Altair frowned. "What's wrong with him that he would hide like this?"

The man laughed. "You'll see." Altair eased his foot up. "Now let me go!" the herald demanded.

Altair gave his own laugh. "Let you go? So you can tell him of my plan?" He'd seen the gleam of gold in this man's eye. The herald may not feel like his life was worth the merchant king's coin, but Altair's life would be a different price. This man sought money. Thomas sought freedom. There was no comparison.

"I won't say a thing!" the man gasped, fear starting to flicker in his eyes.

"No," Altair said solemnly. "You won't."

Kneeling, Altair thrust his hidden blade up the man's nose directly to the soft tissue of the brain. And if that wasn't enough, the Altair shifted his weight, so that all of it was on the foot on the man's throat. He cleaned his blade on the man's shirt and left the dark alley. Finding a ladder, he quickly ascended to the roofs once more. Asr prayers wouldn't last much longer, so he returned to the southern gate of the citadel. He swiftly leapt from beam to beam, archers posted just outside, shouting, startled, as he leapt across the plaza to the roof over the podium the herald had used and then across to another rooftop and down to the streets before they could realize that he wasn't some illusion of the heat.

He sipped from his water-skin and blended with the growing crowds, letting the flow carry him south, away from the citadel and the body.

Altair spied another minaret and went searching for a ladder. He was south of the Barada now, and his map still needed adding to. High up over the city, an eagle glided down and rested beside him. Altair pulled out some dried meat and gave it to the majestic bird before going back to his maps.

It was nearing the dinner hour and Altair's stomach was starting to rumble. The eagle gave a hunting screech and leapt off into the winds. Altair climbed down until he spotted a cart of hay and he was low enough to not be injured by the fall. He jumped easily and none even glanced his way as he landed softly in the straw. He stayed still for a few moments, listening to the crowd ebb and flow until he hopped out and walked away quickly, leaving only a small trail of hay.

Since he was near the _souk Sarouja_ he entered, seeking to replenish his food rations. The crowd guided his flow and he checked the stalls for bread, dried meat, and other supplies. He was just a blade in the crowd, hidden, and he kept his senses as sharp as his blade was sheathed.

It was as he was heading to a supplier of oil so that he could clean his various blades, when he noticed a courier rushing through the crowds.

This perked Altair's interest. Couriers were usually with their masters at all times, waiting on when a message needed to be delivered. If a courier needed to deliver to a merchant, it was best to go to the merchant's warehouse. So why was a courier here in the _souk_?

Altair left the line he was in for oils and followed at a distance until the courier arrived in a corner. He walked around a stack of crates and listened.

"It was good of you to come," said the man who had been leaning against the wall.

"It is an honor to serve," the dark-skinned courier replied, bowing his head. "What do you require?"

"This letter must be brought to Salah ad-Din's camp. Seek out the one they call Hisham, he will be able to help. Tell no one else of this."

The courier nodded confidently. "None will know my mission," he said firmly.

"Then our business is concluded," the man said. Reaching up and scratching his beard, the man glanced around and calmly left the secluded corner.

The courier glanced around as well and Altair was already walking harmlessly by, another person in the crowd. The courier kept a hand on his pack as he started to hurry through the crowd, passing Altair. _Far too easy,_ he thought to himself. With the courier ahead of him and focused on speed instead of safety, Altair was behind him in no time. The hand on the pack was the only hindrance, and even that did no good as Altair easily lifted the document and turned, heading back the way he came with the courier none the wiser.

Altair went back to the oil merchant and went back to getting supplies, including some feed for his horse and some scrap metal for the blacksmiths back in Masyaf.

Evening was fast approaching when he sat on a bench under a lantern.

_Peace Be Upon You, Hisham:_

_I have done my best to balance the ledgers, but the counts show something strange: payments to Jerusalem's regent and William of Montferrat in Acre._

_I had thought this might be connected to the ransom demanded by the Crusaders for our captive brethren, but given the way that ended (peace be upon those poor souls), this seems unlikely. It also does not account for the deliveries to Jerusalem. But if the money was not meant for ransom, then what is its purpose?_

_You should also know that there have been extravagant parties as of late. All held within the Merchant King's palace. This is absurd! The citizens of Damascus starve themselves to help Salah ad-Din's war efforts, but instead, their money is being spent on feasts! They deeply despise the Merchant King, and are powerless to stop him. Which is why I write you now._

_Please, say nothing to the Merchant King for now. Should he become suspicious, he'll attempt to hide his misdeeds. I'll contact you when I've learned more._

_With Peace,_

_Marzuq_

Altair frowned heavily. He had already known from his mission with Tamir that the Merchant King had provided funds for Tamir's weaponry. Now, in the very first sentence, the Nuqoud was connected to his other targets set forth by Al Mualim. And since Tamir was connected with Garnier and Talal, that meant that there had to be some thread to weave them all together. But Altair could not see what. Why was the Nuqoud funding Garnier's army of brainwashed slaves? Why was Nuqoud sending payments to William in Acre, who should be an enemy? And how was Jerusalem's regent caught up in this? What bound these six men?

And what was Nuqoud's money funding in those other cities? Altair was anxious to get to them and see what was going on, if only so that he could see what was going on. He did not care to be so blind. If this accountant could not balance the ledgers, then what sort of extraneous funds were being funneled to the different cities?

The herald had said that Nuqoud hated himself and the people he served. It seemed that hatred towards the Merchant King came in equal measure. Though the herald had pronounced the parties as a way to relieve stress to "lay down their burdens and know joy," it seemed the people disagreed, preferring their money to be used more efficiently. But if even the rich people in the noble district felt powerless, that said something to how much Nuqoud's coin could "persuade" people.

Altair smiled, at last.

It seemed he would need to go to one of these parties.

Placing the letter in a hidden pouch, Altair found an alley almost black in the setting sun and swiftly climbed up to the roofs. As promised to Ibtisam, he did not enter the Bureau, but entered a sky garden nearby. Just before dawn he ducked his head into the Bureau long enough for an apprentice to see him before taking off again. Fajr prayers would be starting soon, there would be little for him to do, and so he spied the minarets of the Umayyad Mosque. They were the tallest in the city, and presented a beautiful challenge.

He dashed about the rooftops, confident that the guards were exhausted after their long shift and bleary eyed, likely to see little. Hopping over a series of wooden beams, he landed onto the roof and dashed behind and around pacing guards before standing at the base of the minaret. Altair took a moment to plot his route that he could see in the dim light. False dawn was filling the sky and if he cared to look down Altair could see the people of the city milling about in the massive courtyard of the mosque, arranging prayer carpets and chatting with each other before prayers started.

Taking a running start, Altair leapt up the flat face of the minaret, his legs pumping him up as high as he could before he stretched his entire body, his fingers just touching the handhold he wanted before he fell back to the roof. He made it on the second try, and for the next three hours all he saw was the rock face above him. The sounds of the city fell away as the sun rose, the faint breeze kissing his coattails as he ascended. Hauling himself up onto a small balcony, he paused to rest for almost fifteen minutes, shaking his arms and hands out, stretching muscles and relaxing before he climbed even higher, intent on reaching the top.

The paint was chipped, he noticed, the wind had scared the minaret in ways those below would never notice, and as Altair reached an old forgotten construction beam sticking out he at last sat down and looked away from the task at hand.

The view was breathtaking.

To the west he could clearly see the arched roof of the noble district's _souk_ , beyond it he could Salah ad-Din's citadel, not even close to reaching the height he was at. To the south was a massive palace, a rich domed building dominating the area as it sat in a sprawling estate. To the east he saw the bronze roof of the Bureau, a spec in the uneven dots of roofs. He saw a _madraasah_ , he did not know it's name, and even further, up near the east wall, so far away he could barely discern it, was the _souk Al-Silaah_ , where he had killed the black merchant Tamir. Southeast he could see other structures rising out over the roofs of the city. He did not know them yet, he had not been there, but this high the massive city looked small. Leaning forward, almost laying down on the beam, he looked down, vertigo having never bothered him, and the people in the streets below looked as insects, milling about like a hive.

Problems were small things, he decided, looking down at the world. It was like the Master had said, everything had to be taken in context. Al Mualim saw that list of nine men as Altair saw the city now; he saw all the streets and webs of connection and ties that bound the men. Altair was but at street level, only able to see what was around him, only what was immediately below him if he stood on a roof. To understand the reason behind his orders to kill these men, Altair needed a higher perspective, as Al Mualim had. The demoted assassin would have to work hard, climb as he had this spire.

It gave him a sense of conviction, and he nodded to himself, satisfied with his climb, and began to work his way down.

It was just after Duhr prayer, the noontime heat high and hard to ignore after being up in the wind. Once he was low enough, he leapt down into a convenient hay bin.

Pulling out a loaf of bread he nibbled on it, having missed the mass exodus of the famous mosque after prayer, he went inside to see who was left. Several people were walking about, either cutting through on errands, lingering to talk with friends and family, or standing to listen to the heralds as they spouted propaganda.

"The fires of war consume the land! Should Richard take Jaffa, then soon all Jerusalem will fall to his wake. Salah ad-Din rides to meet him, so that these barbarous acts might be avenged! Some say this is a tragedy, but I say it is an honor! To die in service to God! The Christians call this fight a Crusade, a Crusade for what? Ignorance? Violence? Madness!"

Altair shook his head as he walked past. He could not understand how religion could be used for war. Wasn't the point of religion peace and tolerance and self-mastery? How could it ever be twisted into propaganda and hate? This was why he never practiced it, better to be a heathen or a heretic than a liar. At least the assassins were _honest_ about their motives.

He exited the mosque and circled around the outer wall, his ears open for anything interesting in the side conversations happening. Much of what he heard was confirmation of the letter he had stolen yesterday. Many in Damascus were being tithed to finance the war, complaining that they could not afford oil lamp for night work or were sacrificing salt and food to make ends meet.

That was when he heard Christian vowels.

Altair spun his head around, trying to lock on where he had heard the accent.

"The last of it has been delivered," said a man, large and well built with powerful arms displayed in a sleeveless vest.

"Good." The Christian from before! The one who had intimidated a merchant into delivering a letter when Altair had been assigned to kill Tamir. He was still in the city? For what purpose? "Make sure he also knows it wasn't easy arranging a shipment like this."

The man frowned, Altair walking around a corner before peaking his head around to see the men. "Its only wine," he said to the Christian, confused why the man was so put out. "Some can be fickle in their faith," he explained.

"Your holy book says something on the subject, I believe," the Christian intoned, a smug, knowing tone in his voice. " 'Leave them that they may eat and enjoy themselves, and that hope may be guile, for they will soon know; and never did we destroy a town that had a turn made known.' "

Altair frowned, trying to place the quote. He had read the Qu'ran, and the Bible, too, but he could not place the passage. Not in reference to wine. Muslims were not to drink wine, but with bad water or droughts many were lax to the law - often wine was safer than water, even in the market capital Damascus.

The man in a vest seemed of similar disposition to the quote, his frown growing. "... What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his tone defensive. Even he could tell that the Christian had insulted him somehow.

"Never mind," the disguised Crusader said, still smirking. "Be about your business."

"...As you wish," the man said, parting company. His broad shoulders rolled as he walked, right past Altair's corner, paying the assassin no mind. Debating between following the Crusader versus following the burly man, Altair bet himself on the burly man, putting his eyes to the ground and pushing himself off the corner. The Christian could not hide his accent, Altair could find him again if he had to, but the assassin wanted to know where this man worked that the Crusader would oversee a shipment of wine and be smug about it.

Tailing the man was easy, the man unworried and uninterested in things happening around him. Weaving through the streets, Altair frowned as he saw the massive domed building he had seen from his climb of the Umayyad Mosque. Who lived in this palace?

Stopping, he knew better than to enter, and instead looked to the entrance of the massive _souk_ of the _Sarouja_ district. He entered, changing his posture and his gate, turning into a wide-eyed and slightly confused man. "Excuse me," he said in his soft tenor to a merchant, "I am new to the city and have managed to get myself lost."

"It happens to the best of us," he said expansively. "Where were you heading?"

"A potter by the name of Ibtisam," Altair replied, looking down in sheepish nerves. "My master will be upset if I collect his order late."

"You are very turned around indeed," the merchant said.

"Oh? Where am I now?"

"You are in _souk Al-Hamidiyah,_ out the entrance that way," he explained, pointing where Altair had come, "is the palace of the Merchant King. Head east from there until you leave _Sarouja_ district, then ask for more direction. Now, excuse me, it's time for Asr."

"Yes, of course. Thank you," Altair said, nodding his thanks before turning on his heel and leaving. He started at the ornate cast iron fence, up the steps and to the massive palace. Here was where his target lay. He had ordered wine, meaning he was likely preparing for another party. Altair would have to find a way to sneak into the palace. Perhaps he could help with the preparations...? He would have almost free reign of the palace, and he could make preparations of his own. Where would he find workers to ingratiate himself was the next question, and he answered it almost immediately. Salah ad-Din was still renovating his citadel from when he had taken it in almost twenty years ago.

He climbed the face of the _souk_ , not wanting to be declaimed as a heretic while the masses began their midafternoon prayer, and took to the roofs, smirking as several guards had also gotten to their knees to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, what to say about this chapter...
> 
> One of the great things about Assassin's Creed is the voice acting. Even belying Nolan North (famous for the Uncharted series), we also have Kristen Bell who plays Lucy. This scene, where she confesses that she too is a prisoner of Abstergo, is one of our favorite scenes in the Desmond parts of the game. In point of fact, we didn't really need to do much but transcribe the scene, Kristen's acting does it all herself.
> 
> Having said that, we hope no one minds that we took the one liberty of having Desmond hug the poor girl. She needed it, and it seems to add that little extra oomph to an already awesome sequence.
> 
> Also, we once more say if there's anyone out there who actually is Muslim or knows about Middle Eastern culture, we hope that you can either confirm or correct our use of prayers. One of the Five Pillars of Islam is to pray; five times a day, facing Mecca. Wikipedia listed the names of the prayers: Fahr (dawn), Duhr (midday), Asr (afternoon), Maghrib (sunset), and Isha (night) and their times, but we felt confused on how long the prayers actually last - it almost seems like Maghrib and Isha prayers are done back to back, and the two of us got very hesitant and nervous on whether we did them justice. We can only hope they were done right, and that it makes sense how Altair - a heretic to Muslims - fudges his way around it. Both of us are doing a very delicate dance around a war between two religions that in some ways is still popping up today, and the last thing we want to do is offend anybody. That Altair is in effect an atheist gives him the ability to critique religions as he sees them makes it a little easier, but even though we're using his voice we're both tempted to lay down disclaimers left and right. It's no wonder the game opens with a blurb about how it was made by people of many faiths and beliefs. We raise our hands and agree.
> 
> Moving on to safer topics, as a side note the Umayyad Mosque is quite worthy of note - it's the fourth holiest place in Muslim belief, it was built on the site of a Basilica for John the Baptist, and it holds the grave of someone we by now know quite well - Salah ad-Din. There was no way we weren't going to have Altair climb it. :D
> 
> And we once again curse the lack of subtitles of the game. Barring the fact that Wikipedia and google couldn't give us a reference to the Qu'ran quote to even get a reference for what it was talking about, we're not sure of the wording in the last line about never destroying that had a "turn" made known. Turn? Is that the word? (heavy sigh) We tried.
> 
> Next chapter: Death of a Merchant. Friends still exist in the brotherhood.


	11. Death of a merchant

Entering into the citadel again was easy, and Altair spent two hours talking to the various construction crews asking who would be helping Abu'l Nuquod prepare for his party. More than a few spat at the very mention of the Merchant King's name, and several said they would never take his coin. The assassin was glad that there were those who still had principles, but his irritation was more prevalent as his means to enter the palace grew daunting. He walked into one of the citadel's structures, sitting on a bench and resting in the afternoon heat.

"Safety and peace."

Altair's head snapped up, surprised to see a journeyman standing over him in the shade. "Safety and peace, brother," he replied, grateful for the greeting.

"You want information about the city I suppose?"

The assassin stood. "No, but perhaps you can help me with something else. I wish to gain entry into Abu'l Nuquod's palace. He is preparing for a party and I wish to scout the location and learn what I can before I strike."

The journeyman straightened, his eyes narrowing. "You are Altair," he said, his voice lowering in pitch and becoming much less friendly. "I lost my cousin and my uncle in the attack at Masyaf."

Altair said nothing, waiting to see what the journeyman would do. When it became apparent the informant would do nothing, the demoted assassin gave in to his frustration. "Whatever you feel about me, I have been given an assignment from Al Mualim to take the Merchant King's life - and that is a mission you cannot interfere in. If you are so hesitant to help me then test me as others have, let me prove myself worthy of the information. That is a task the Master has placed on the entire Order."

The journeyman glared, hatred radiating off him as the heat radiated off the city. His fists balled at his sides, and Altair simply waited.

"I am in the middle of something right now," the informant finally said, growls emerging from deep in his throat. "Wait here."

The demoted assassin sat back down and watched the shadows stretch across the small courtyard. In thirty minutes the journeyman returned, winded and with sweat coloring his clothes. Altair stood.

"I would love to help you, but right now I don't have time," the journeyman said in quick, clipped tones. "I must find some flags which have been stolen from our cache. But, with this heat, my legs cannot carry me anymore. Would _you_ be kind enough to help me?" His tone indicated his expectation of Altair's help. "Return with the flags and I'll help you as best I can."

A weak premise, but Altair paid it no mind, quickly spying the first flag and snatching it before dashing up to the roofs for the rest. The journeyman had been in a rush, the route was simple and easy for Altair, and as he leapt from one roof to the next he kept steady count of his heartbeats. At the end, jumping down to the courtyard the informant waited and startling three people, Altair handed the flags to the informant.

"Sixty-eight heartbeats," he said.

In spite of himself the journeyman whistled, impressed. Then he shook his head and returned to the matter at hand.

"Thank you," he intoned, still antagonistic. "The _rafiq_ will be happy to see these flags returned. Perhaps this morsel of information will help you: I was invited by Abu'l to one of his lavish parties. I noticed the fountain in the middle of the Merchant King's palace can be easily climbed."

Altair balked.

"You have been to the Merchant King's parties and _that_ is what you choose to tell me? How many people can be expected to be at the party, what sort of events will happen over the course of the evening, how many guards will there be and where will they be positioned, where will the Abu'l be when he addresses the people? But instead you tell me of a _fountain_ that can be _climbed_?" He glared.

The journeyman glared right back. "Use this information wisely. I'll not trust a traitor with more valuable information. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go."

Furious, Altair marched out of the citadel, heedless of where his steps took him, trying to work off the energy that had so suddenly filled him. He was not a _traitor!_ What would it take to convince the others of this? And yet the informant had lost family in the attack, and the assassin could not begrudge the man his anger. The two emotions conflicted within Altair, and he struggled to release the emotions quickly.

Evening was approaching, and as Altair entered an alley, rubbing his forehead, his ears caught something.

"Dirty thief, I'll have your hand for that!"

"Please, I've done nothing wrong!"

Distraction at last! Altair walked down the narrow alley, spying three guards accosting a young woman. He was more than happy to start a fight, but he remembered his terrible form in Jerusalem with the scholar. Also, he did not want to help someone if they were guilty of thievery. The woman struggled against one of the guards, her _hijab_ torn off and half tangled in her hair, but her skin was clean and without disease. Her smock was well made but plain; she was neither poor nor rich. He waited, and listened.

"An urchin like you does not belong in this district!"

"Please, I am here to visit my cousin and her new husband!"

"Lies. Give me back my money!"

"I have no money!"

The assassin studied the girl again, but could find no pouches or purses with which to hide coin. None. The girl told the truth, then, and Altair grinned at the opportunity to let loose excess energy and also help the citizenry. Two birds with one stone.

He exited the alley and assessed his surroundings. Maghrib prayer would be starting soon; the streets were nearly vacant, more importantly there were no other patrols of guards. That left the three.

Altair marched up to the one city guard guarding against spectators. "You have no business here," he said, "Go away."

The assassin's response was to plunge his hidden blade into the man's gut, retracting it quickly and silently. The second guard was inattentive, watching instead his friend harass the woman. He didn't even realize Altair was behind him until it was too late, and the assassin grabbed the man's mouth to still his cry as his hidden blade sank into his back in Altair's favored strike. For the third, he grabbed the man's shoulder, spinning him around and away from the girl, kicking the man's legs and making the guard fall to his knees. His blade sank into the man's neck, the soft tissue no match for Altair's skill.

He turned to the girl. "Come," he said, "Quickly."

He had to take her hand and pull her to get her moving, through the alley he had come through and out to a different street. The girl mechanically struggled to fix her _hijab_ , tears streaking her face and her motions jerky and nervous. A guard patrol appeared at the end of the avenue, and the girl gave a soft whimper.

"Be calm," he said in his soft tenor, "act normally and none will notice you. If they do, I will distract them and you can run."

She fought to bring herself under control and Altair watched the patrol discretely. Only one turned to study the woman, and the assassin caught and held his gaze, silently communicating that he had everything under control. The city guard nodded and no incident occurred. Altair walked another fifteen minutes before stopping.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"You," she started. Her voice cracked and she tried again. "You saved me."

"I will escort you to your destination, but I do not know where that is," Altair replied, pressing the point. He wanted to be off the streets - or at least on the rooftops - when the bodies were discovered.

It was another forty-five minutes before the girl at last knocked on the door of a house in _Sarouja_ district. A woman, clearly related to the girl, and a man opened the door.

"You are alright!" the woman said, ushering in the girl and throwing her arms around her. "It's so late! We were worried!"

It was all the prompting the girl needed; she burst into tears. Altair and the husband shared a slightly panicked look, but the women quickly disappeared to a different room and the husband ushered the assassin in. Altair explained briefly what happened and why he was with the girl.

"Hah," the husband said, "We're missing Maghrib for this. I do hate doing two prayers at once, but I am certain Allah will understand. It appears as though you've saved the life of my cousin-in-law. She is very close to my wife, and for that you have my thanks and gratitude. You will always be welcome in this house."

Altair chose not to reply to that, uncertain what to say.

"Well, best not have you on the streets during prayer," the husband said. "We wouldn't want you labeled as a heretic, and a story like this is private at any rate. I'm certain we still have some food from our dinner, are you hungry?"

Before the assassin could wave off the offer his stomach gave an audible rumble. The husband laughed good-naturedly and led him to the cookpot. As he ate, the man regaled him with small talk. The husband was a contractor, married only two months, and did work in the citadel. Altair perked at the information and casually asked how he could find work under Abu'l Nuquod.

The husband laughed again, a large, hearty sound. "You are not that abomination's type, my friend."

Altair frowned, not understanding the statement, and clarified, saying he heard the Merchant King was preparing for a party and that he wished to help in the preparations. "I need the coin," Altair lied, "and in these times I will not be choosy."

"You speak wise words, though I hate to admit it," the contractor said. "I loathe the man, how he became the father of the money I will never understand, but even I work for him, his hand is in almost every contract dealing with Salah ad-Din's citadel while the Sultan is not here. If the men knew it, they would surely riot." He frowned, rubbing his short beard. "I might know a few people. Come see me tomorrow morning. I will see what I can do."

Altair nodded.

"Now, I'll not hold you longer. No doubt you still have business to do, and I don't want to miss Isah prayer on top of Maghrib. Allah isn't that forgiving." He laughed again, and Altair chuckled as well in good humor, before setting out into the late evening light. The next morning the contractor introduced him to another contractor, and for two days Altair reported for work at Abu'l Nuquod's palace. His assassin robes were replaced with a worker smock, he felt uncomfortable without his swords or his throwing knives, but he persistently kept his hidden blade, hidden under the sleeve of his overlarge shirt. For two days he studied the inner courtyard of the palace. The fountain, an indecently exposed woman of Roman design, could indeed be climbed, and on either side were stone arches. There was another structure, too, further back that acted as some kind of open room that had plenty of things to grip. The rest of the courtyard was very smooth, well built, and handholds were too high up for him to reach.

Guards were far and few between, though Altair knew that would likely change for the actual party. True to what he had heard to this point, Abu'l was nowhere to be seen, deeper inside his palace that Altair and the other workers had no access to.

At the end of the second day, as the assassin and the others left, one of the workers walked up to Altair.

"There is a problem," he said. "I need your advice."

"What is it?" the demoted assassin asked.

"This morning, I went to handle the lanterns for the party."

"This troubles you, why?"

"I... I forgot to remove the scaffolding," the worker said, rubbing the back of his bald head in embarrassment. He shook his head, nervous.

"Forgot it where?" Altair asked perking at the information.

"Just outside the Merchant Kings' quarters, above the balcony. Wh-what if it falls? Someone could be hurt."

Useful information. Altair grinned and put a hand on the worker's shoulders. "Too late to do anything about it now," he said. "Just hope it isn't noticed. I have a few things to do yet tomorrow before the party, I will handle it then."

"Oh, thank you," the worker said. "You are very generous."

Altair slept in his sky garden and once more "checked in" with the Bureau by letting someone inside see him. Now he would sneak into the palace before Fajr dawn prayers would begin. Hopefully the guards were more prevalent during the night, and just before dawn they would be at their most tired, and Altair could mark where they were on his map.

He was almost at the gates when,

"Altair, my friend! My brother!"

The demoted assassin froze, the voice surprising him. He turned, and exiting the door of a house just outside the palace was Zamil, a fellow apprentice and journeymen during Altair's time in Jerusalem. He smiled.

"Safety and peace, brother."

"Safety and peace," Zamil said. "It's been such a long time. Any news of Adha since she left?"

_"I will find you Adha!"_

The assassin froze, his back straightening, his fists balling at his sides as the old pain swept over him. He said nothing, but Zamil saw just the same.

"No? How sad," he said, looking down, giving Altair time and privacy to pull himself together again. "I'm sure you'll find her some day."

Silence hung awkwardly between them.

Zamil finally changed topics. "I've heard a feather is lying atop Abu'l Nuquod's head; maybe I could help you. But, I have a mission myself; I have four targets I must eliminate before noon. Let's cooperate, just like old times. Two for you, two for me? They are Abu'l's personal guards, you'll spot them in minutes."

"Yes," Altair agreed blindly. Murder would do him good.

"Good. Come with me," the journeyman said. "Imagine, me, _me_ finally settling down and taking a permanent assignment. I thought I would wander forever, but it seems even I find the endless travel tiresome and wish permanence. For the last two weeks I've been establishing myself as a spice merchant in the _souk_ , and I'm not afraid to say I've already taken a wife. Timid little creature, shy and soft spoken, and her father is very possessive of her, but I fell in love at the sight of her. And once you get her alone and comfortable, her mind is very sharp. She talked me in circles when we first met. She's make a fine addition to my cover, and to the order, if I can convince her."

"You are doing well, then," Altair said as they entered the massive _souk_.

"Happy as can be," Zamil said. "I never thought settling down could be so exciting. I recommend it to you but I know your wanderlust is even greater than mine was. You've a few years left in you before you'll feel the itch, I'd wager. How long have you been in the city?"

"This is my fifth day," Altair said.

"What?" Zamil cried out, "And I've not seen you till now? What have you been doing, brother? Where have you been sleeping? I'm at the Bureau every evening and I've not seen you."

Altair squirmed, looking away and instead keeping a lookout for the sleeveless uniforms of the Merchant King's guards. "Is that one?" he asked softly, pointing.

"Yes," Zamil said, his happy exterior falling away. "I'll take first blood, if you don't mind." Altair nodded and the journeyman left his side, disappearing into the crowd. The demoted assassin stood next to a merchant stall, crossing his arms as he eyed the guard. The journeyman crept up behind him with great skill, Altair appreciated the technical perfection, and sank a knife into the man's back, just below the ribcage as Altair himself favored, without even breaking stride. The demoted assassin calmly started walking again and rejoined his friend.

"As I was saying, why have I not seen you at the Bureau?"

"I cannot stay where I am not welcome," Altair said softly, his words lost in the noise of the crowds.

"Well, that simply will not do," said his friend, patting the assassin on the shoulder, "we'll have to fix that."

"Have you even talked to the _rafiq_?" Altair asked. "His opinion will not change, and I do not care if it does. I can do my job without his support."

"Ha! Still looking to challenge yourself I see," Zamil said. The journeyman shook his head and clapped Altair on the shoulder again. "That push will surely get you killed one day. Mountains, great as they are, do not stand alone, do they? Even the mighty seas are connected to the lakes and rivers. So it must be with assassins. We are great by ourselves, but we are better together. You may not care what the _rafiq_ thinks of you, but your _should_ care that you have his support. And with that, at least, I can help you. There is the next target," he added, jutting his head to a patrolling man of the Merchant King. "Your turn."

Altair nodded and broke away, clasping his hands together and dipping his head down, locking his eyes on the feet of the target. The crowd was thick but the assassin navigated it with ease, working his way up to the guard, following him until he stopped to look at a stand. Once he bought a leg of meat Altair snuck up, stabbing the man. As the body fell many cried out, saying he was choking.

"Excellent," the informant said, "I would not have thought to disguise his death so. This is why you are a master assassin - title or not. And how is it, might I ask, that you can keep a man in your sights if your head is bent so low?"

"I look at his feet," Altair explained.

"A trick from a master, I will keep that in mind for the next one," Zamil said, happy at the thought. "Tell me, I heard another _dai_ is in charge at Jerusalem. Do I know who it is?"

"... Malik."

"The boy you played with as a child?" the journeyman asked. "Then the Holy City at least is still a place of welcome for you."

"No," Altair corrected. "He and his brother Kadar were with me at Solomon's Temple."

Zamil stopped walking outright, staring at Altair with wide eyes. "Oh, brother," he said, reaching out and touching the assassin's arm, "The pain you must be in."

Something in Altair prickled, and he looked away. "I am fine," he said stubbornly. "I am _fine_."

_"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade."_

_"All of this could have been avoided! And my brother... my brother would still be alive!"_

He was fine. He was _fine_. He had a target to kill. He was perfectly fine... There was no pain. At all...

The two assassins exited the _souk_ , searching the streets for the last two targets in silence. One was cutting through an alley, and Zamil took his turn to kill the man, searching his pockets for papers and coin, while Altair broke off to find the last. He was by a fountain, drinking from it. A degenerate was there, bony and shirtless, nibbling on his fingers and giggling at something only he could see. Altair briefly wondered if Garnier could have saved this man but put the thought from his mind, instead looking at the Merchant King's guard and narrowing his focus, thinking about eagles and opening his mind as he closed the distance. The stab was quick and efficient, and Altair walked by a city guard, listening to the man demand whom was responsible for the murder as the demoted assassin continued to increase his distance.

"Wasn't that great?" Zamil demanded when they met up again. "Just like in Alep, you remember? Here's something I found on one of the Merchant King's men. I think it's a map of where he'll station his guards. I'm sure it will come in handy in your mission."

"The last time I found such a map it was part of a trap," Altair intoned, looking at the sketch and the placements. Morning prayers were long since over, and now the guards were locked away in the palace with Abu'l. There was no way to confirm this until the actual party that night, and the demoted assassin sighed and accepted he could do nothing about it.

"Any time you're in Damascus, come see me," the journeyman said, "you know my door is always open to you. Where are you off to now?"

"The _rafiq_ to get my feather," Altair said simply. "And then to the party tonight."

"Tonight?" Zamil said. "Then you've the entire day free. Excellent. Come with me."

"But-"

The journeyman did not take no for an answer, instead spending the rest of the morning dragging the demoted assassin about the district, catching up and sharing stories. It was past noon when Zamil at last pulled Altair to the Bureau. Several apprentices were in the courtyard, and the journeyman quickly accosted them.

"My friends!" he said expansively. "Look and see whom I've discovered today: Altair! This man is an excellent friend and brother to the Order; I expect you've heard many stories about him already."

Most stared, the ever-affable Zamil having caught them all off guard. One finally pulled himself together to mutter, "That he's a traitor and should be avoided."

Zamil took it in stride. "Oh, he's made mistakes like the rest of us, and it can be expected that the greater a man is, the greater effect his mistakes have. Let me tell you a story about Tripoli. The two of us were working together to kill a man there, vile guard captain. We were in the middle of assaulting his stronghold when we discovered our information was incorrect. Imagine my surprise when twelve guards suddenly surrounded me. None of the information we had gathered talked about wandering patrols inside the garrison."

"And whose fault was that?" a younger apprentice asked, wide eyed.

"The traitor's," the older one muttered. Altair said nothing.

"Ha! A good guess but mistaken," the journeyman said, still in good humor. "It was mine. I was responsible for gathering information about guards and troop movement. In technique, there are none that can beat my friend here. I was in dire straights at the time, one had managed to break my arm - I still have the scar from it - but he swept in and dispatched no less than four guards before they even knew a second man was there! Why, as I was fighting the guards Altair was not only able to complete the assassination but also come back before I'd killed a third man. "

"So then, he came back _after_ the mission was finished," the apprentice said, still scoffing.

"As well he should have," Zamil said, "If he had not, the captain would have disappeared and ruined a month's worth of work. My position was already compromised; he could have made a clean escape but instead he made himself known and saved my life. I will always be indebted to him, he is a true hero!"

Altair could not take any more words from his friend, nor the multitude of expressions from the apprentices. He quietly made his way into the Bureau.

"Peace be upon you, Altair," the _rafiq_ Ibtisam said. "How may I serve you?"

A wave of laughter erupted from the courtyard. "Ah," Ibtisam said, "That would be Zamil, wouldn't it? He has quite the string of stories from his days on the road. He says he knows you very well and likes you even though you've betrayed the Order and are responsible for killing a brother. He has defended you many times this week, and I have encouraged him to do so. After all, you being hated for your arrogance and reckless action that almost brought about the entire destruction of the Order seem so unfair. Don't you agree?"

Altair took a deep breath. "I've done as asked and learned all I need to know about my prey."

Ibstisam stood, walking down the counter to pull out the book. "Then you must share your knowledge with me."

"Abu'l Nuquod is corrupt to the core and is despised by his own citizens as a result. It appears he's been stealing money meant for the people of Damascus and spending it on himself. Even as we speak he flaunts his greed and preparing for a lavish party. His guards and servants should have their hands full dealing with the guests. They won't even know I'm there."

"Most impressive, my friend," the rafiq said in his ironic tones. "The others said you'd make a mess of things, but not I. No, I was sure you'd come through, and come through you have." He opened the book and pulled out the feather, placing it on the counter.

"The Bureau is yours to do with as you please, until you are ready to begin." Ibtisam smiled. "I hope one of the things you do is the report, of course, but I know not to ask, you must already be planning to write it down."

Nodding, Altair pulled out quill and parchment to write his report, Zamil and his stories wafting from the courtyard. The afternoon waned, but Altair finished his report to Ibtisam's satisfaction quicker than he had anticipated, and so Altair spent the time pouring over the detailed sketches he'd made of the Merchant King's palace, mentally picturing the guard map Zamil had given him and associating it with certain spots in the inner courtyard. The courtyard behind him erupted occasionally with laughter, and Altair felt removed from it, disassociated. The journeyman always made friends with everyone; Altair did not have that skill and had never considered it necessary. Now, the proverbial mountain without a range, he began to wonder if it was a skill he should have paid more attention to. He had _thought_ he had friends, brothers that looked up to him and lavished him with praise for his talents and exploits, but now they spat at his feet and scorned him, proving he did not sway their loyalty as he had initially thought. He felt... he felt lonely, listening to the noise outside and knowing he would likely never be a part of it.

He shook his head. Such thoughts did not befit an assassin. He was stronger than that.

Dusk arrived, and after evening prayer Altair stood and left the Bureau. Zamil bade him good luck, and said he would wait up for him, and shockingly a young apprentice wished him fortune as well. Dumbfounded, Altair could only nod as he climbed out the courtyard and made his way southwest, towards his target.

"Safety and peace, my friend," Zamil said softly.

Altair arrived at the Merchant King's palace to see the party had already begun. A steady stream of people were chatting as they entered the palace, dressed in finery and laughing. Altair waited, picking his moment before sliding into the throng without a glance and entering. Those that looked at him curiously, with his swords and throwing knives, merely shrugged, assuming him to be part of the guards who occasionally walked by on their way to something or other.

Inside the palace, a lavish display of food was set up, goblets of pure clean water, a true rarity in the high heat of summer with Damascus's only source being the Barada River, and servants with trays overflowing with fruits and meats circulated. Girls wearing see-through silks with flowing hair and beaded ornaments danced to amused calls of the men surrounding them. From a balcony above, a small band played lively music; flutes and drums of some kind and those already well into the revelry were swaying with the music, if without much rhythm.

Altair didn't mingle. He stayed by the walls, looking around with the sharp eyes of an eagle, his mind opened and searching for his target the Merchant King. He could easily see the balconies above where his map had said there would be guards, yet he saw none. Sensed none. This worried Altair, because there was something he was unaware of going on. So he kept his eyes eagle sharp as he constantly scanned the crowd, "mingling" enough to move from one wall to another to get another perspective.

The moon was high in the sky as people still danced and talked. For all that Altair had heard that many in the city hated these parties and their lavish expenses, those that attended did seem to enjoy a chance to relax. They talked of politics and discussed how they would strategize the war if they were there, and how to win. Altair tried not to sneer. People removed from the war, who knew nothing of blood and sacrifice, offering strategies that would "surely" win. He despised it when people who knew nothing of what they spoke tried to give advice.

The food was eventually removed; leaving only snacks as the party continued well into the night. Altair was starting to wonder when Nuqoud would finally appear, as he allegedly did. He kept his eyes sharp and stayed alert. The partygoers were oblivious to whether their host was there or not, so Altair kept moving through the crowds, looking for the "abomination".

It wasn't until the moon had reached its zenith that the Merchant King finally arrived. He stepped out onto the balcony with two of his buff, bare-armed guards flanking him. The partygoers seemed to notice and all turned, conversation not disappearing, but dropping.

"Welcome, welcome!" Nuqoud said expansively, his arms wide open and Altair finally saw why many might call him an "abomination." The Merchant King had a greater girth than any Altair had ever seen before. His face was potmarked and twisted with heavy cheeks of ugliness. And though the evening had cooled considerably, it seemed even walking from his private quarters to the balcony had left Nuqoud sweating. Indeed, he only wore a long, sleeved vest, leaving his chest and stomach exposed, still shining with sweat and Abu'ls fat arms rested on it as he looked down on the people.

Around Altair, he could hear muttered words of disgust for the Merchant King, harsh words whispered behind hands like children. Altair, having been subjected to such treatment himself, felt great pity for the massive merchant above them.

"Thank you all, for joining me this evening," Nuqoud continued, deaf, apparently, to the cruelty towards him. "Please! Eat, drink enjoy all the _pleasures_ , I have to offer."

Altair noted the odd emphasis, but pushed it aside.

"Take your time," Nuqoud gestured to his own goblet. "I will wait."

The crowd seemed disappointed until, as if a miracle from the Bible, the water from the nude Roman fountain turned to red wine. Several men immediately started to fill their goblets and drink.

With a strange smile, the Merchant king said, "I trust everything is to your... _satisfaction_."

"Most definitely!" someone shouted.

"Oh-ho it is!"

Clearly, these did not mind losing their senses in the wine.

As many started to gather around the fountain, Nuqoud seemed pleased. "Good, good." He made another expansive gesture. "It pleases me to see you all so happy."

Altair pushed through the crowds, hoping to get to an exit so that he could get around to the scaffolding left behind.

"These are dark days, my friends, and we must enjoy this bounty, while we still can. War threatens to consume us all. Salah ad-Din _bravely_ fights for what he believes in, and you," he pointed to the vast crowd, "are always there to support him without question." A twisted smile. "It is your _generosity_ that allows his campaign to continue."

Altair had almost reached an exit when he paused. Something about the Merchant's King's speech making him still. Something was... strange.

Nuqoud raised his goblet. "So, I propose a toast, then, to _you_ , my dear friends, who have got us to where we are today."

The crowd crowed in happiness and flattery, while several still muttered insults to the benefactor that had provided their revelry.

"May you be given everything you _deserve_."

Everything within Altair tensed, that sharp vision of the eagle turning to the ugly, fat Nuqoud. _Danger_. The partygoers, heedless of the peril that was suddenly _engulfing_ the palace, cheered and applauded.

"Such kindness," Nuqoud kept pacing his balcony. "I didn't think it in you! _You_ , who have been so quick to judge me, and so cruel." He smiled. "Oh do not feign ignorance," he chided as the crowd started to boo. "Do you take me for a fool? That I have not heard the words _whispered_ behind my back? Well, I _have_. And I fear I can _never_ forget."

Altair was looking around, wondering where the _danger!_ was coming from, his whole body tense for action.

"But this is not why I've called you here," Nuqod said with amusement. "No, I wish to speak more of this war, and _your_ part in it." The people shouted in anger. "You give up your coin, quick as can be, knowing all too well it buys the deaths of thousands. You don't even know _why_ we fight. 'The sanctity of the Holy Land' you'll say, or 'the _evil_ inclination of our enemies'. But these are _lies_ you tell yourselves," the Merchant King snarled and laughed. "No. All this suffering is born of _fear_ and _hate_. It _bothers_ you that they are different, just as it bothers _you_ that _I_ am different." He took a big gulp from his goblet and set it down.

"Compassion, mercy, tolerance. These words mean _nothing_ to _any_ of you! Mean nothing to those infidel invaders who ravage your land in search of gold and glory! And so I say _ENOUGH_!"

There was a crash.

"I've pledged myself to another cause," guards flooded the upper balcony, archers! Altair tensed even further. "One that will bring about a new world," Nuqod said, easing over to one of his guards, the dark skinned one, "in which _all_ people might live," he placed a hand gently on the guard's shoulder and let it slide down a strong arm, "side by side, in peace." Nuquod smiled down at the upset crowd.

"A pity, none of you will live to see it."

One by one, those by the fountain who had been sipping or guzzling the wine started to cough and choke. Goblets fell and broke, men staggered and collapsed, and those not yet down started to scream.

"Kill anyone who tries to escape!" the Merchant King demanded.

As one, the archers opened fire on the panicked crowd as Nuqod calmly watched the people who had come get cut down. The people tried to scatter, getting under the balconies, heading towards the exits, not realizing the gates had been shut and archers from across the courtyard could still see them. The dancers were screaming, huddling together and trying to beg that they were only doing their jobs, the men hid behind the women or behind pillars, some grabbing pillows meant for sitting and holding them up as some sort of feeble defense.

Altair's mouth thinned.

These people were _innocent_. They had only come because they were invited. The city of Damascus may view Nuquod as an ugly abomination, but he proved himself to be what they expected by this slaughter.

Altair had to stop this.

He was an assassin. _Stay your blade_. At worst, these people were guilty of childish taunts and words. They did not deserve this.

Altair needed to save these people somehow.

Those fallen to the poison were already gone, but the archers only needed a new target in order for the people to be safe.

So Altair provided such a target.

He brazenly ran through the courtyard, coattails concealing his legs as he effortlessly ran up the statue and grasped the head. The poisoned wine poured over his arms, staining his whites and Altair kept his mouth sealed shut as he pulled himself up to balance on the nude's head before leaping to a set of decorative arches.

The archers had noted he was an easy target, and arrows were flying his way. He easily dodged them as he balanced perfectly and took three steps to leap to a flagpole and up onto the balcony.

"Infidel _die_!" the archers cried, realizing the threat to Nuqoud. But Altair was too swift. The arrows only grazed him at best as the Merchant King gasped and stumbled backward. The guards that had flanked him stepped forward, swords drawn as the fat abomination scurried out his door.

This was a setback, but Altair had no worries. The bearded guard reached forward to grab the assassin, but Altair grabbed the wrist, twisting it so that the bearded guard turned before Altair planted his boot in the man's rump, kicking him hard face-first into the marble. The dark skinned guard came up, sword swinging, trying to take advantage of Altair's distraction, but Altair easily brought up his sword, blocking the strike before kicking out with his other leg, sending the guard flat on his stomach.

He raised his sword to kill the bearded guard who was standing again when pain flashed up along his arm. He ignored it completely, finishing his strike, a heavy blow the bearded guard had no chance of blocking, that slashed through the unprotected chest, collar to hip. Blood spurted to Altair's face and arms and he spared a moment to wipe his face with a forearm and grunted. His arm was still blazing with pain, but he ignored it, not even glancing to see what the problem was because the dark skinned guard was on him again, a war-cry on his lips as he brought his sword down as heavily as Altair had on his partner.

The force of it pushed Altair back and an arrow shot by his face. A glance showed that the archers were all focused on him, but were hesitant to fire and hit their associate as well.

Good. That meant the people weren't in harm's way.

Altair fell back; blocking strike after strike until he was in the narrow hall that Nuqoud had fled down, the dark-skinned guard blocking him from the archers. The guard slashed again and Altair stepped back swiftly, pulling out knife and throwing it into the guard's unprotected neck. He would bleed out in minutes.

Taking off like an arrow, Altair ran down the hall and to the back of the palace. Behind him he could hear the archers shouting to each other, seeking new positions to get this wine-and-blood soaked assassin, their focus not returning to the panicked people below them.

_For a fat man, he runs fast_.

"Guards! Where are all of my guards!"

Altair saw Nuqoud running towards a guard tower, no doubt to get a sword. He couldn't have that. He raced forward, the back of the palace unguarded as everyone was to be on duty at the party. Nuqoud glanced back and with a startled yelp hurried even faster than his bulk suggested was possible.

Altair was upon him, knocking him down before the Merchant King was even twenty feet from the guard tower. It wasn't elegant in the slightest, but Altair was at last alone with his target. He wouldn't have much time, but it was enough. Nuqoud himself seemed to know that his time was at an end.

"Be at peace now," Altair offered. "Their words can no longer do harm."

Nuqoud only glared at him. "Why have you done this?" he demanded.

"You stole money from those you claimed to lead, sent it away for some unknown purpose." Part of which was Tamir, and likely Garnier and Talal and who knew what else. "I want to know where it's gone and why," Altair gave his own demand.

The Merchant King scoffed. "Look at me! My very nature is an affront to the people I ruled, and these noble robes did little more than muffle their shouts of hate."

Altair frowned. "So this is about vengeance, then?"

"No, not vengeance, but my conscience. How could I finance a war in service to the same god that calls me an abomination?"

The assassin still wondered where in the Qu'ran that Allah had said that ugliness was such a sin, but put that aside. "If you do not serve Salah ad-Din's cause, then whose?"

Nuqoud gave a twisted smile. "In time, you will know them. I think, perhaps, you already do," he said quietly.

Altair thought of his first three kills towards his redemption. Yes, he did know. But the connection was but a pale thread. It existed, but could not be grasped. "Then why hide?" he asked. For all these men had hidden their true purposes. "And why these dark deeds?"

The Merchant King reached up, placing a fat hand on Altair's elbow and running it down his forearm. "Is it so different from your own work? You take the lives of men and women, strong in the conviction that their deaths will improve the lots of those left behind. A minor evil for a greater good. We are the _same_!" The hand stroked Altair's gauntlet again.

Altair felt distinctly uncomfortable. Yes, he killed, and he had been killing for years. He killed because it brought peace, removing the evil and letting freedom take over for oppression. He had seen this keenly through killing Tamir, Garnier, and Talal. The people those men had made suffer were better off without such villainy. Yet, from each of their perspectives, it was Altair who was the evildoer.

Discomfort and anger made him bite out, "No! We are _nothing_ alike!"

"Ah, but I see it in your eyes," Nuqoud whispered. "You _doubt_. You cannot stop us... we will have our New World."

With a sigh, Altair's hidden blade slid into Nuqoud's throat. The man gurgled, his body resisting the breathing of blood. Altair pulled the feather from his belts and brushed it gently into the blood bubbling from the Merchant King's throat before standing.

"There he is!"

"I will catch you!"

And Altair was off through the northwestern door of Nuqoud's palace. He was covered in poisoned wine and blood and made for quite the site as he raced through crowded streets, but he was not alone. The crowds from the party had broken through the doors and were screaming as well. Altair easily blended into the crowd, the panic causing others who weren't even involved in the party to start running.

He made his way north, wishing to avoid going straight to the Bureau and bringing this pursuers along with him. He doubted Ibtisam would take kindly to that in the slightest.

The crowds started to thin and Altair found a secluded courtyard so that he may finally take stock of himself.

He was indeed a sight to be seen. He smelled like a drunkard and the wine and blood had stained his white robes to pinkish red that was slowly turning brown as the blood dried. The main issue was the arrow in his arm. Like a seamstress pinching cloth to put a needle through, an arrow had done more than graze his skin, piercing it like a needle. His wine-soaked sleeve was at least disinfecting it, but he reached up and snapped off both the fletching and the arrowhead, leaving only a few inches of the shaft still in his arm. It would be less noticeable and he would not do more until the physicians Ibtisam had could look at it properly.

These men he was sent to kill were wicked. They profited form the war. And so Altair was sent to stop them, and ensure that peace returned. But then why did the Merchant King's words dig so deeply? Was it wrong for the assassin to see a bit of truth in them? He needed return to Al Mualim, that he could help make sense of this and crush the seeds of doubt. To do that his first priority was to get to the Bureau.

He exited the courtyard, the nighttime streets darkened to almost black. It helped to hide his unseemly appearance as he continued to use back alleys and side streets to weave his way through the city.

He passed under a torchlight, confident that he had lost his pursuers, despite the still clanging bells of the guards.

But his arrogance once again ensured trouble.

"There he is! You will not escape me!"

Altair was off and running again, his whites working against him in the darkness of the night.

Arabic curses were hurled in his direction as Altair spotted the Barada River.

He couldn't stop the smile from gracing his lips. He may be weighed down with his swords, but he did not bear the heavy armor of the city guards. Without pause, he leapt over the railing and dived into the dark waters of the river, gra _teful to wash off the poison and blood so that he may hide better._

* * *

Desmond gasped for breath, disoriented in the white fog as the Animus reset itself. "What the _hell_?"

But the fog was dissipating. He was right where his ancestor was, just seconds ago, at the river, only it wasn't the middle of the night, it was high noon again. His clothes were once again the pristine white he always wore as his avatar, and the sharp pain from an arrow _in his arm_ was gone. In fact, so was the arrow.

" _What_ the _hell_?" he repeated, surprised to find himself out of synch with Altair.

"Get him!"

"Huh?"

Desmond turned and a guard was swinging at him with a two-handed grip on his sword, slashing Desmond's chest and sending a shock of pain through him.

" _Hurry up and resynch, Mr. Miles!_ " Vidic growled. " _We haven't got all day!_ "

He didn't hear the rest of Vidic's harsh words as he tried to dodge out of the way of _four_ guards! Four! Why the hell did he desynchronize in the middle of _open conflict_?

A sword sliced into his back and Desmond was sent stumbling forward, through the circle of guards around him as a standard patrol came out of the noontime shadows and started to unsheathe their blades to help their associates. Desmond took the time to get to his feet and start running, panic raging to take control even as he _firmly_ put it aside.

If there was one thing Desmond had always been good at, it was running.

He sprinted along the river, leaving the Arabic epitaphs behind him and taking a sharp right and another sharp left, running along some bi _g Umayyad Mosq_ ue. He could hear the guards still behind him, so Desmond started thinking outside of narrow alleys and crowded streets. (And why the _hell_ was it noon instead of night?)

Desmond spotted some crates that were leaning up against a small one-story building that he easily leapt up. Once on the roof he used his momentum to climb up to the second story and across a street to the covered balcony of another building. Behind him he could hear the guards scrambling to catch up, their number slowing their ability. He leapt down from the roof he was on to a lower roof and then dropped right into a small, darkened alley. With a deep breath, he controlled his racing heart and breathing and calmly exited the alley. The crowded shoppers of the streets once more surrounded him and he found a bench that he sat on, looking down at his feet and waiting.

He had questions. A lot of them. But he dared not say a word until he knew he wasn't going to be attacked by guards again. Watching from under his hood, he saw the original four guards that had accosted him run swiftly by, followed by the seven guards of the patrol, and another three that seem to have joined the chase at some point or other that Desmond couldn't even begin to guess. Bits of code seemed to follow the guards, trailing behind like a scarf. The clang of the city bells were still sounding and the guards slowed to a stop just beyond where Desmond was praying no one saw him.

The code seemed to grow in size before the guards stopped completely, standing dumbly and then dispersing, swords still drawn, in different directions to start searching the area. Desmond stayed still, head down, leaning forward, looking as if the he was resting from the heat. With over a dozen guards on the look out for him, Desmond tried to reach for what Altair did. He focused all his might on the vision of an eagle and reached for the part of his mind he'd seen Altair reach for.

Colors flashed across his vision for the briefest of seconds.

But it seemed Desmond hadn't inherited that sharp-vision of an eagle. A thousand years to remove it from the bloodstream, but that was still disappointing.

The guards had finally left the area and Desmond let out a sigh of relief. He didn't get up from his seat, however. Instead, looking to the sky.

"My, wasn't that fun?" he asked sarcastically.

" _We weren't expecting that, Desmond_ ," Lucy said softly with a hint of sorrow. " _You already know the Animus isn't programmed for swimming and we didn't have records of your ancestor being a swimmer. We just can't simulate it and you glitched out of the memory._ "

"Yeah I figured that," he replied somewhat sullenly. "But the night-to-day transition?"

" _Night to day?_ "

Desmond frowned. Did they not see the memories in the proper timeframe? He looked around, seeing everything under the harsh noon sun. That was the only time the Animus ever showed, noon. Like the clock was set to midday and couldn't move forward. If Altair's memories showed the advancing of time, but the Animus didn't, was that something he could use?

Then he bit back a growl of frustration. _Of course they set this thing to noon. All the better to see what Altair did and study his moves. Of_ course _it can't be night when he can hide things._ This wasn't just about getting to a specific memory of some treasure that they needed. This was a chance to study how assassin's worked. Even Desmond running just now was showing off an ability he had that was better kept to himself. He was _such_ an idiot.

"So," Desmond looked up to the sky and changed topic. "Anyone want to spill the beans on exactly how all these guys my many-greats-grandpa was killing are connected?"

Vidic gave a great guffaw. " _All in good time, Mr. Miles. All in good time._ "

Desmond offered many epitaphs of his own, all vulgar and demeaning, towards the grizzled old fart, in the silence of his own mind.

And, with a quiet sigh, he muttered, "Map: Damascus." The quickest way to resynch would be to return to the Bureau. With tattered and still somewhat blurry map in hand, Desmond started to make his way back to where Altair would be going.

One would think that a lost scholar with a map in hand studying the city would be dismissed as harmless.

Naturally, it wasn't.

Desmond ended up on the run from the guards three more times. It took longer each time, since he _refused_ to show off his full abilities to either Vidic or whomever these sessions were recorded for, so he stayed to the streets and avoided climbing rooftops, using narrow alleys and merchant stands as distractions and breaking line-of-sights. It didn't change that his skill at running was still seen, but his first escape would likely look more like a fluke, or so he hoped.

When he finally heard the wind chimes of the Bureau, Desmond let out a sigh of relief. He walked into the shadowed alcove where the ladder ascended to the roof and started to climb. Strangely, as he went up h _is arm ached. He had climbed too often with the arrow embedded in it._

* * *

Altair's robes were uncomfortably damp, and the arrow in his arm was sending sharp twinges up his shoulder at every opportunity. After his swim in the river, he had decided it was wiser to stay to rooftops, where his white shadow would blend with the clay buildings. And, as predicted, he had no more trouble with the guards. But the minor irritation of the arrow was starting to get truly annoying. On the roof of the Bureau, he looked out to the east where the sky was just starting to lighten for the dawn. He had been at this for a full day and now that he was safe, tiredness was also starting to weigh him down. Ibtisam would no doubt scold him for somehow being late or some other triviality, so Altair pushed down the tiredness and took a breath to focus. He had a report to write out and a sarcastic _rafiq_ to deal with.

Once more strong, Altair dropped into the Bureau. His drop startled awake two people. One, as Altair had expected, was Zamil. The other was surprisingly the young apprentice who had wished him luck.

"Ah, Altair, my friend," Zamil greeted warmly. "The bells toll your success!"

"Indeed," he agreed. "The Merchant King is dead."

"Excellent! Excellent!" Zamil lighted a lamp, casting a warm glow around the courtyard. "Come, tell us of your adventure! Perhaps your tale will convince this young pup that you are a skilled assassin of the highest order!"

Altair's lips thinned. His tale was not of skill or luck. He did not wish to share it, as he would have with Zamil once, when Atlair did not bear the wisdom he had recently worked for. Zamil clapped Altair's shoulder and they entered the main office of the Bureau. The silent apprentice set about lighting the other lamps and lanterns, throwing a glance of suspicion and confusion at the demoted assassin.

Altair sat on the cushions by the game board as the lamps went on one by one. Zamil pulled out water and bread, all but forcing it down Altair's throat as the last lamps were lighted.

Once the room was well lit, Zamil and the apprentice got a good look at Altair. The apprentice let out a sharp laugh at the demoted assassin's disheveled appearance.

Zamil laughed as well. "Altair, I'm reminded of when I ended up rolling through the stables running from a patrol in Jerusalem just after you made assassin. Ah, things were so much more difficult once you'd moved up the ranks."

Altair gave a tiny smirk, eating another slice of bread. He reached over the chessboard for the pitcher of water when Zamil stopped in mid-laugh as his eyes focused on Altair's fingers, which were dripping blood from what had been leaking from the arrow in his bicep.

"Aamil, get the physician," Zamil ordered, a blade already out and slicing Altair's shirt.

Altair tried, in vain, to brush it off. "I am fine," he said firmly. "The physician can see it later, after I've given my report to the _rafiq_."

But it was no use. The young apprentice was already gone, off to wake the physician and, as per custom, the _rafiq_.

"You make too much of this," Altair said, pulling his arm back.

Zamil shook his head with a fond, if exasperated smile as Ibtisam came in. "Altair, my friend. You have always, as long as I've known you, _always_ refused to acknowledge any weakness you have, especially when injured."

"To show weakness is to expose yourself to an enemy," Altair replied bitterly.

"And what enemy is there to be had in the Order?"

"Harash, second-in-command to Al Mualim, last year."

Zalim paused, eyes wide. From where he was not listening as he set up the paints for his pots, Ibtisam looked up sharply before turning back to take a half-painted pot off the back shelf.

Aamil arrived with the physician, who looked older than he was and haggard as only long hours of work could produce. With a glance at Altair's stained clothes, he groaned. "Let me guess," he said. "Poisoned and shot with arrows? I've been treating this _all night_."

The apprentice gasped, Zalim's usual smile disappeared, and Ibtisam kept working on his pot.

"I was _not_ poisoned," Altair said firmly, willing them to get this through their thick skulls before he was the object of any more focus. He was uncomfortable with this as it was.

"Good," the physician said. "Maybe you can give me a clearer picture of what happened to make people panic and rouse me in the middle of the night?"

Altair nodded. He started to unbuckle his gauntlets and belts, knowing that as he told his tale, he would have the physician demanding he strip eventually as it was. His movements were neat and concise, showing none of the ache from the shaft in his arm, nor the fatigue from having been up for over a full day. As each item came off, he explained Nuqoud's party and the trap within.

When he spoke of the wine that was poison, the young apprentice gasped. When he spoke of climbing the fountain that poured the wine, Zamil interrupted to make sure he wasn't poisoned, and as he explained drawing the archer's fire away from the panicked crowd beneath him, the physician started grumbling about how stupid Assassins truly were.

"What would you have me do?" Altair replied thinly. "Sneak up the structure in the back of the courtyard while the people fell to the arrows? Make my own escape?"

The physician shook his head. "That is not what I meant," he replied with amusement, having already trimmed the arrow shaft more cleanly and pulling it out. He was now applying some salve to the various cuts from other grazing arrows Altair had received. "Over the years I have treated many of you Assassins," he said, pulling out clean cloth to wrap the bicep. "You tend to get into trouble with such ease that I wonder if any of you are truly sane. But _you_ , young man, don't just get into trouble. You call it away from others. Others you don't even know." The old man shook his head. "If you Assassins suffer madness, would that more people fall prey to your insanity."

"If you are finished," Altair grunted, pulling his arm back and ready for this to be _over_.

Laughing, the physician turned to young Aamil. "If you ever wish to heal instead of kill, my door is open for a good assistant as you."

Aamil's jaw dropped, clearly not having expected to be addressed at all.

Zamil laughed, patting the boy on the back. "Why, it seems our young apprentice might have found his cover trade before he even finished his first year of training."

"Ah... I... um..." Aamil stammered.

Back behind the counter, Altair could see Ibtisam smiling at the young apprentice.

Zamil glanced at Ibtisam, who gave a slight nod. "Well, Aamil, since I'm new in town, why don't I help you escort our tired physician here back home. I think you can take care of any patients that come by so that our good friend here can rest."

"!" Aamil gaped.

"Don't worry," Zamil said expansively as the left. "I've treated enough arrow wounds that I know what to do."

The physician actually chuckled.

That left Altair putting on a clean set of shirts that Aamil had been sent to fetch for him and Ibtisam painting a pot. The sun was well into morning, Fajr prayers already done for some time.

Ibtisam finally looked up from his pottery. "Word has reached me of your success, Altair," he said lightly.

Altair pulled out the bloodied feather. "Abu'l Nuqoud's reign of terror is at an end."

"I'm glad to hear it," Ibtisam said with an honest smile.

Altair paused, the one feeling of the entire debacle overwhelming him. "He _killed_ them. The men and women at his party. It was _poison_. A _coward's_ tool," he shook his head. "Blamed them for the war. Said _he_ wished to end it." And if that was his method for ending it Altair could not _fathom_ the hatred behind it.

Ibtisam pulled out his book, marking things down. "Strange," he agreed before offering an almost sympathetic look. "But then the Merchant King was known to be a bit..." he gestured vaguely, " _different_. Perhaps this was simply a symptom of his madness."

"Perhaps," Altair allowed. But that did not feel right.

"You sound unconvinced. Speak with Al Mualim, then. He may offer a better explanation."

"Yes. We'll see what he has to say."

"In the mean time, get some _sleep_ before you collapse and trip my apprentices."

Altair said nothing, merely nodded and headed out to the courtyard to leave.

" _Not_ out in the city where you are hunted," Ibtisam stated. "The others assassins question your intelligence, know that I defend you. You would not be stupid to sleep outside when guards still hunt for you, no, I said you would be far smarter than that."

Altair bit back a sigh and instead arranged himself by the cushions in the courtyard to be out of everyone's way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this didn't get put up on Friday. A nor'easter hit New England last week and quintupled the combined snowfall for October for the last 100 years. The entire state was without power for a week. As you can imagine, we've been spending the last week cleaning up the hundreds of down branches, watching live wires set fire to asphalt, sitting in 20 degree nights trying to keep warm, and otherwise listening to the radio as the entire disaster is mismanaged and prolonged. We were without power for 103 hours - five days, and we're lucky, because there are STILL people out there with no power. Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled authors' notes:
> 
> These middle assassinations are interesting in a way because Altair is struggling with his old self and his budding new self. He's still appalled by his circumstances even as he's beginning to truly understand why they've been placed on him. We think this is highlighted by the presence of Zamil, a favorite of ours. He just sounds so happy to come across Altair in the game that we had to expand his character as much a possible. His friendship with Altair marks a stark difference with the other members of the Order, and almost makes Altair's isolation more painful.
> 
> Astute readers will notice we utterly reworked the eavesdropping mission. We had to, I mean come on, there's only so much you can do to make sitting on a bench and listening to the dialogue of nameless characters interesting.
> 
> Abu'l Nuquod's sexuality is apparently a bit of a question mark, as we discovered when researching his character. His guards are very buff and don't believe in shirts, instead just vests that expose their buff torsos and arms. Similarly, the way he strokes the shoulder of a guard... While we don't state it overtly (in honor of the game's own subtlety and the fact that historically such things simply aren't talked about), we had more than a little fun with the idea that Altair is utterly clueless to such lifestyles. I'm sure the yaoi fangirls out there are quailing and pulling out their hair at the very thought.
> 
> We also took the time to check in with Desmond and will do so with the next two assassinations. He's stuck in the Animus all day, if we waited until after the third target we'd have forgotten that Desmond had anything to do with the fic, so it keeps his plate spinning. Besides, we like messing with him in the Animus.
> 
> Here's hoping for a disaster-free week. Next chapter: speaking in riddles.


	12. Riddles and Confusion

"Come, Altair, speak with me a moment," Al Mualim beckoned from a corner of the library, instead of being at his usual table.

Altair stepped forward. He had been waiting for two days to speak to the Master, and in that time the physicians at Masyaf had told him he was healthy (which he already knew, thank you) and refreshed the students of Rauf on what they were clearly forgetting since he'd helped teach them.

"As you wish," he replied, standing by a bookcase.

"Word has reached me of your success," the Teacher said, scanning titles. "You've my gratitude, and that of the realm. Freeing these cities from their corrupt leaders will no doubt promote the cause of peace."

Altair was not convinced. "Can you really be so sure?"

"The means by which men rule are reflected in their people. As you cleanse the cities of corruption, you heal the hearts and minds of those who live within."

This felt true. Removing someone who oppressed the people and left them in despondency made room for people to become happy, and seek their own dreams. Still...

"Our enemies would disagree."

Al Mualim turned sharply from the books he was searching through. "What do you mean?"

"Each man I've slain has confessed strange words to me," he explained. "They are without regret. Even in death they seem confident of their success. Though they do not admit it directly, there _is_ a tie that binds them. I'm sure of it." One he hoped the Master could explain.

The unease in Al Mualim's eyes turned to pride. "There is a difference, Altair, between what we are _told_ to be true and what we _see_ to be true. Most men do not bother to make the distinction. It is simpler that way." He turned back to his shelves. "But as an assassin, it is your nature to notice, to question."

"Then what is it that connects these men?" he asked.

"Ah," Al Mualim offered a cold smile, "but as an assassin it is also your _duty_ to still these thoughts and trust in your master."

Altair thought instantly of Ibtisam, who always referred Altair to the Master.

"For there can be no true peace without order," Al Mualim continued, "and order requires authority." He turned to another shelf.

This confused Altair. Greatly. This did not sound like the Al Mualim he had learned under. "You speak in circles, Master! You commend me for being aware, then ask me not to be. Which is it?"

Al Mualim turned and the flicker of pride seemed to die behind the coldness. "The question will be answered when you no longer need to ask it."

Feeling woefully unsatisfied with this, Altair changed topic so as to get away from the discomfort of his Teacher not acting like his teacher. "I assume you called me here for more than just a lecture."

"Very well," Al Mualim said in a tired voice, once more scanning the shelves. "A rank and weapon are again restored to you. Two more leaders remain. Go and see to it that their rule is ended. I suggest William de Montferrat first. Richard has been called back to Acre because of him and something is amiss because of it."

Altair nodded and left, feeling more confused about the connection between these men that before he had arrived.

The ride to Acre had not helped his confusion. In fact, it had only grown. He could not resolve the direct opposition of praise for seeing the connection and then forbidding him to ask of it. The Master had never been one for dichotomy, saying that life held more than enough of it and he did not wish to add to it. And the comment about no longer needing to ask which was which... What riddle was that? Altair could not help but find a headache.

He wondered if Malik would laugh at him for his confusion. He was always much quicker in unraveling riddles, he and Kadar both.

That thought only made him angry, and when he entered the Hospitalier district he was determined to stick to the streets and walk off his negative energy. He would need focus for the coming mission. He did not know much of William of Montferrat, his son Conrad was much more active in the war in years previous, and rumor was that he was now back in Tyre with his wife. Conrad had performed well in the Battle of Hattin, where his father William had been captured. Salah ad-Din had tried to use William as a hostage against Conrad in trying to take Tyre. The man had refused, claiming his father had lived long enough and calling the sultan's bluff. It was Conrad who had turned the captured Muslims of Acre to Richard for slaughter. William... he did not know much of the man.

Altair cut through the abandoned _souk_ of the ravaged Hospitalier district, now empty of guards because the slavers route was no longer used, and passed through a square before turning east down a street that would lead him to the fountain in front of the Bureau. A Christian was standing at the fountain, shouting at the public.

"Stay strong citizens, remain _fixed_ in your beliefs. Though the road is long and your trials many, know that God watches over you. It is His hand that guides our warriors to victory. First in Acre, soon in Jaffa! The Saracens are routed at every turn. We cast them out of Acre and pushed them from the countryside. Now they retreat to the South, _begging_ Saladin to save them. He will not succeed for none can stand the might of King Richard's army. He is graced by God! It is only a matter of time, friends, before all the land is ours once more, just as it was _meant_ to be."

Was it not Christian belief to turn the other cheek? They were such hypocrites.

Shaking his head, Altair ascended the ladder of the Bureau, keeping a sharp eye out for archers or guards watching the building and seeing none, before he hoisted himself up onto the roof and then down into the closed in courtyard. It was midmorning.

" _Rafiq_."

Jabal had his back to Altair, perusing his shelves stacked with books, looking for something. He spoke without turning. "Word has spread of your deeds, Altair. It seems you are sincere in your desire to redeem yourself."

"I do what I can."

"And sometimes you do it well." The _rafiq_ turned and eyed Altair, his dark orbs intent, before adding: "The Master has seen fit to forward your report on your last assignment to myself and one other. It is a rare man who will deliberately draw fire to reduce the pain the masses feel. You held true to the Creed. I'm sure he was proud of you."

Altair's mouth pressed into a thin line, his last conversation with his teacher running through his head.

Jabal saw this and frowned, slightly, before graciously changing the topic. "I assume it is work that reunites us?"

Altair was grateful. "Yes. William of Montferrat is my target. What can you tell me of the man himself?"

"William has been named Regent while the King conducts his war," the _rafiq_ said, beginning to pace behind the counter. "The people see it as a strange choice given the history between Richard and William's son Conrad, but I think Richard rather clever for it."

"Clever how?" the assassin asked.

"Richard and Conrad do not see eye to eye on most matters," Jabal explained. "Though they are civil enough in public, there are whispers that each intends evil upon the other. And then, there was that business with Acre's captured Saracens." Both paused in disgust over the slaughter. "In its wake Conrad has returned to Tyre, and Richard has compelled William to remain here as his guest."

"You mean his hostage."

"Whatever you wish to call it. William's presence here should dissuade Conrad from acting out."

Altair shook his head, feeling another headache. "... I've never been one for politics," he confessed.

This made Jabal openly frown. "But surely you realize your every action shapes the course of this land's future. You are a politician, too, in your own way."

"As you wish," Altair said quickly. The last thing he needed was one _more_ thing to think about. He would never get anything done at this rate. "Now where would you suggest I begin my search?"

"Richard's citadel, southwest of here," Jabal said after a moment's thought, "or rather, the market in front of it. You'll find the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in that direction as well. It's a popular place and should be filled with talkative citizens. Finally, try the boarder to the West, where the Chain and Hospitalier districts meet. That should start you one your way."

"Very well, I won't disturb you further."

"It's no trouble at all," Jabal said. "Teaching those that wish to learn is often almost effortless."

Altair had almost left before he turned right around. "The water?" he asked. His water skin was still full, but the idea of making it last...

"Many of the bodies have been fished out of the river, though not all. It is fortunate that most of your work will likely take place in the Chain district, they suffered the least damage during the siege and their water is mostly clean. Be wary of fountains bordering the Hospitalier districts in particular - they are slow in collecting bodies since the death of their master, but those deeper in fare better, my sources say. Which of course make sense," he added with a wry grin, "Given that Richard was living in his citadel until a few weeks ago. Word is he will return shortly, for what I don't know."

"And the Bureau, is it still watched?"

"Not with the regularity of before," Jabal said. "Weeks of being quiet have left certain eyes bored. However, if you wish to sleep here, you must return right at sunset when the shifts are changing. Early or late of that, and I'll kick you out."

"Understood," Altair said, nodding, before climbing up the ladder to be _gin his search but I can't keep up with the politics can someone hit pause?_

* * *

Desmond gasped slightly, blinking and looking around. He was on the roof of the Bureau. The midmorning sun had changed to the scorching midafternoon sun that certain god-complex dicks preferred, and he knew that he had somehow desynched from his ancestor Altair.

_"Damn it, what's the problem now?"_

"Well, gee, doc," Desmond said, pacing the roof slightly. "Maybe I'm a little confused because my ancestor's an idiot like me and doesn't keep up with the times. Maybe a lot of names are being shot back and forth and I don't know Tom from Jerry. And _maybe_ all my confusion over it just made me desynch. Did you ever think of that?"

_"Of all the-"_

_"What do you need, Desmond?"_ Lucy's voice asked.

Desmond hopped off the back of the Bureau onto a crate, then to the ground before he sat down. "I know Richard, only because of that Kevin Costner flick about Robin Hood. I don't know what he did in the Crusades, only that he was in them. And this William and Conrad guy are just names being thrown at me. Which one was I, he, Altair after?"

_"The father, William. He doesn't show up much in history. He fought in the battle of Hattin in 1187 and was captured. Saladin tried to use him as a hostage to have his son Conrad surrender the city of Tyre but to no avail. He was released later after his usefulness was proven ineffective in 1188. We don't know much else about him, only that he died three years later, in the summer of 1191."_

Desmond nodded to himself, trying to keep it straight. "So, target's a mystery. No outside information to help. I guess cheating isn't allowed." He looked up to the sky. "And the Conrad guy?"

_"William's son,"_ Lucy replied. _"Give me a minute... Okay, his refusal to bow down to Saladin in 1187 when he offered up his own father as a hostage to barter the city of Tyre didn't make him a lot of friends. It says he was good at politics."_

"Which is what his refusal was. Salah ad-Din made a bluff with Conrad's old man and he refused to take the bait," Desmond muttered, unaware he had said the sultan's name with Arabic pronunciation rather than European. "Kay. Next."

_"He'd spent some time in the Byzantine Empire before joining the Crusades, he had a wife there,"_ Lucy said, her voice sounding like she were reading off a screen. _"He did a good job defending Tyre from Saladin, it seems, I won't bore you with the details. When Guy of Jerusalem came to Tyre for help, Conrad refused and insulted Guy. It says he fought in the Siege of Acre. In 1190, he married Isabella of Jerusalem, next in line after Guy's wife Sibylla and children died."_

Desmond looked up. "But didn't you say he was married to some chick in the Byzan-something or other?" Bigamy actually _happened_? Even back then?

_"Reports are conflicting. It was another strike against him, though. It says he was the negotiator for the surrender of Acre and named heir to Jerusalem after Guy. He got a substantial amount of plunder and hostages from the city, and he ultimately handed over the hostages to Richard, and King Richard slaughtered them all. This would have happened right around Altair's first trip to Acre."_

"Jesus then this was recent," Desmond said. "No wonder he felt so much disgu - the mass grave outside the city. The one I saw in the construct. Was that...?"

_"Probably."_

"Christ."

_"Are we all caught up now? Feel like getting back to work?"_

Desmond didn't bother replying to the old prick and instead go up off his crate, crossing his arms and thinking, trying to wrap his head around the information as his feet started to carry him. Politics weren't _his_ forte either, but he had to keep it all straight or his confusion would affect his synchronization, which would hurt his chances of finding whatever it was Abstergo was so insistent on digging out of his DNA before they did.

Guy he remembered from his crash course before: the guy in charge of Jerusalem by marriage. Knocking on Conrad's door and getting snubbed. Trying to take Acre and flashpoint-ing two armies to go fight each other. Siege on Siege of Acre. Slaughter. Riding south for the Holy City. So the son was a big player in the war, while the father, William, the target, was a background piece. Wouldn't the son make more sense? But then, there was the connection he and Altair had seen with the four men he'd killed so far - God he was almost halfway through that damn list and he had nothing to show for it!

Desmond growled and ran his fingers under his hood, into his hair. He passed by a ladder and climbed it up to a tilted stone-tiled roof, so different from the clay-and-thatch roofs of Damascus and Jerusalem. Looking around, he saw a giant church all but bursting from the roofline, putting the rest of the city to shame. Probably the Cathedral of the Holy Cross the _rafiq_ had mentioned. Well, if he was going to synch, that was the best place to start.

The guards on the roofs weren't the black and white colors of the Hospitalier, but rather their armor was split into red and white quadrants. He supposed he'd figure out the division eventually. A part of Desmond was curious if he could hold out in a fight with them, he'd learned a lot from watching Altair fight with Rauf in the training ring in Masyaf, but a much bigger part of him said it was a bad idea to test out the theory, and so he kept to the roofline, avoiding archers when he could and out and out running from them when they spotted him. None chased him, and for once Desmond was glad the NPCs were stupider than their historical counterparts.

As he got closer to the cathedral, he worked his way around, hoping there was somewhere that would be an easy jump across. There wasn't, and so he backed up on the roof of the narrowest gap and took a running leap.

"Aw, shiiiiiit!" he cursed as he missed his targeted handhold by more than a few feet. He was still moving vaguely forward as gravity started to take over, and he reached out more than a little desperately for something - anything - to prevent him from going splat on the paved road below. His hand wrapped around something and his abrupt arrest of falling damn near yanked his arm out of his socket; his body instead went splat against - what was it? - a window and he took a moment to just breath. " _Christ_ that was a bad idea," Desmond muttered.

Assessing his situation once the sudden rush of adrenaline wore off; he found that he had grabbed iron crossbars that held the window in place. They made a perfect ladder, and Desmond slowly made his way up the vertical face of the cathedral and up to the roofline. There were archers here, too, of course, because why should life be even remotely simple? Cursing again, Desmond hung at the edge of the roof and waited for them to pass before hauling himself up and darting up the tilted roof. He thought of climbing the giant cross, knowing his ancestor had a penchant for high places but th _ere could be time for that later his first objective was to assess the citadel..._

* * *

Altair stared up at the cross for a long time, safe as he was from the guards below seeing him. It would be like the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, and the idea of looking down on the city pulled at the eagle inside him, waking when he wasn't ready to use it yet. Perhaps later, he thought. His first objective was to assess the citadel. If William was there he needed to know it's defenses, either that or determine when the man would next be out in the city. Perhaps when Richard arrived...?

Turning from the massive cross he watched the guards pass beneath him, waiting for the two to cross each other's path and move further down the roofline. Once they did, Altair crept down the roof and flipped over the ledge of the cathedral, slowly making his way down. He could see through the stained glass here, could see the parishioners as they prayed and could hear the Gregorian chants of the choir. Whatever else he thought of Christians, their holy music had a certain beauty to it - until one realized the lyrics.

He hopped down the last few meters, tucking into a small roll before getting up and walking as if nothing had happened, ignoring the startled cries and comments of the crowd.

Weaving through the narrow streets, he at last exited an alley to see the massive square in front of the citadel, filled with merchant stands and people and chatter. Good. He would learn a lot here.

"Back again, Altair?"

The demoted assassin turned, spying a journeyman. The derisive tone was a giveaway, the nameless man from Garnier's investigation who took pleasure in belittling Altair into collecting flags. Before, Altair had been cold and resentful, now he knew he had earned this man's ire, and held his tongue of sharp retorts. "I am sent to end William of Montferrat's life. Do you have information that can help?"

"Always in need of a hand to do your dirty work," the journeyman said, smug smile in his voice. "This time Al Mualim did not order anything, it is just for my own pleasure that I ask you to find some Masyaf flags I've hidden in Richard's District."

"I have not yet been promoted above you," Altair said, trying to be cooperative. "Such is your prerogative until I have proven myself."

The journeyman's eyes narrowed, clearly discontent with the assassin's words. "Since I am a loyal assassin unlike others," he glared at Altair, "I will tell you what people are saying in Acre, since it is _important_ information. This time, try to come back even faster than the first time."

"As you wish," Altair replied. He had already spied the first flag and took off running, grabbing it as he went before darting up a crate, onto a lantern beam, and then to an overhang, the flags and the route taking him higher and higher up the side of the buildings. Once he hit the roofs, he took a brief moment to see where the next flag was before leaping towards it. He remembered the weaker wood from his last run and compensated quickly, hooking them around his arm in a different way and making much better time.

An archer spied him with a condescending, "Leave, peasant, before I make you!" but Altair paid it no heed, already running across a narrow arch bridging a street and disappearing from the guard's line of sight.

Altair wasn't sure how long the journeyman was expecting him to take, but his eyes betrayed how surprised he was when Altair landed in a tight roll to the ground, surprising several people with his arrival and bundle of flags wobbling in his arms before he calmly walked back to him and handed them over.

"Seventy-five heartbeats," he said, panting slightly in spite of himself. Summer heat combined with the moisture in the port city air tricked his body into thinking it had run three times the distance.

The journeyman glared again, his eyes full of emotion before he took control of it.

"Your hard work is changing my opinion of you," he said in a tone that was utterly contradictory. A deep breath showed his reluctance to uphold his end of the bargain, but he had already stated he was a loyal assassin and could not go back on his word.

"Here is what I know about William of Montferrat: he and Richard had a disagreement before the king left for Jaffa. Since then William stays in his citadel, surrounded by his army. Do you have what it takes to attack William in his protected environment?"

"I do not know. Such will be determined when my investigation is complete."

The nameless journeyman scoffed. "We'll see, but _I_ am still doubtful."

And with that the informant stomped off, muttering under his breath.

Altair frowned, still catching his breath, but he could not expect to change everyone's opinion of him and ultimately he didn't care what they thought regardless.

He spent the next two hours trying to cool down while perusing the merchant stands in front of the citadel. Many merchants were cross with William while others were indifferent. Grain sellers and blanket weavers, salt merchants and lamp oil distributors, all spat at William's name and lamented at what he had stolen from them, grousing about their stock piled inside the walls of his fortress and they unpaid. Carpet dealers, however, or the rich spice merchants from Damascus, or fishermen or cattlemen, they were not affected and cared little for others troubles. All they talked of was how William - or any man that had been captured by the vile Saladin - was unworthy of leading a street patrol let alone an entire city. If the heathen sultan had tainted him then he could not be trusted.

Altair stood at the gates of the citadel, eyeing it warily. There were but two guards at either side, he could walk in easily with other men as they came and went, but the informant had just told him that the Liege Lord of Acre had an army inside. Staying invisible would be difficult with so many trained men wandering about. The assassin decided he couldn't just walk in. He would need a rouse as he did with Abu'l Nuquod. Without it, he would have to wait.

Reluctant, the demoted assassin finally turned north, following the seawall to see if he could find other markets to ask questions in.

The noon sun began baking the city, and Altair cursed the city for it's unforgiving nature. He had thought coastal towns were supposed to be a blessing in the summer because of the sea breeze, but such could not be found in the narrow and packed corridors of Acre. Instead, the moisture of the sea hung in the air, clinging to everything that moved. Sweat could not dry off in this air, and because of that Altair could not cool down.

At last the street opened out to a small square, and one building cast an adequate amount of shade that Altair greedily took, leaning against the seawall and at last feeling a breeze. He exposed as much of his skin as he could to the wind, determined to cool down as quickly as he could. Several others were crowded around another orator, a priest of some kind.

"A plague upon Saladin! A plague upon his people! We came in _peace_ to the Holy Land, to spread the message of our Lord, but they turned away. They refused to accept Him as their Savior. These men hold evil in their hearts, and so Blessed Richard, King and Savior now stands against them, defending us from their wicked ways! Be not afraid. Fear and doubt are weapons of enemies. Do not listen to their lies, poisonous words meant to sow the seeds of confusion! If you find yourself tempted, go and pray! Ask God for direction. If your heart is pure, He will surely answer."

How could anyone stand to listen to such sophistry? And yet two-dozen people cheered as the priest continued to talk. Altair was tempted to point out that by the Bible's logic, Adam and Eve had birthed the entire human population, meaning Christians and Muslim's were brothers. He doubted it would go over very well, and while he liked instigating debate he ultimately didn't have the patience for it. He was not meant to be a politician, and yet he remembered Jabal's words. Was he a politician? If so, he was the most backwards type he could imagine.

The thought actually made him smile.

Any thoughts of further cooling down disappeared into smoke when he saw a white smock enter the square and shove his way through the back of the crowd. A white smock with a red cross.

Templar!

He had thought the Templars off with Richard on the ride south to Jaffa. Bloodlust almost automatically filled him, images of Adha and Kadar filling his mind and pumping energy into his body. Whatever the knight's business Altair would see it go unfinished. The hidden blade extended from his wrist and his fist wrapped around it, clutching it in anticipation as Altair began to shadow the Templar. He licked his lips in anticipation. He would see blood before the day was out.

The Templar Order was the best-trained order in Richard's entire camp. Theirs were not from peasant stock that was plucked from farmlands and shoved to the battlefield, no; Templar blood came from the noble class and had been trained in fighting all their lives. Their perception and ability made them difficult to tail successfully, but even with his demotion Altair was still the greatest assassin in _his_ Order, and the Templar turned only once to see if he was followed - only to see a flock of chickens escaping their iron cage.

The Templar followed the seawall, Altair a shadow under the sun. It would be easy to kill the agent now, but then he would not know what his purpose for being in the city instead of with Robert de Sable and Richard in the field. No, better he wait.

The Templar went up a series of steps, away from the seawall and down a street before a priest in brown waved at him, beckoning him to come.

Altair stayed at the steps, keeping his distance and watching. The two greeted each other, if a little stiffly, and began walking back up the street. Altair leaned against a wall and quickly retracted his blade, instead going through the process of cleaning his nails, looking for all the world like he was killing time.

"Perhaps it was unwise to embrace William," the priest was saying in hushed tones, "He is old and thinks too much of himself."

The Templar shook his head in negation. "His army is the largest beyond the land. We'll have need of them. For now I'll go and visit with the other brothers, and make sure they have everything they need."

Another reference to brothers, and now a _Templar_ was in their number. Just what was linked between these men? How could the Master deny his right to question it? Anger pulsed in Altair's ears and he had to force himself to keep listening.

"Aye. They must not fall," the priest said, his brown hood bobbing up and down in ascent.

"Fear not," the Templar said. "The Master has a plan. Even now he prepares a way to turn our losses to his advantage, should it come to that."

There was a master in this mysterious brotherhood? Who? What was their objective?

"What does he intend?"

"The less you know the better," the Templar said. "Just do as you've been instructed. Deliver the letter you carry to our Master."

And Altair found himself painfully torn as the Templar handed a rolled piece of parchment to the priest: go after the letter and learn more about the Master? Or kill the Templar and feel satisfaction that there was one less enemy that faced the assassin order? Indecision pulled his body into a taught knot, and he pressed his fingernails into his palms, struggling.

... The letter. It would have more information about the mysterious brotherhood and the more he could gather about its hierarchy the more it could help him. Bloodlust would have to wait.

Exhaling a hot breath, Altair darted after the priest, eyeing him easily as he hopped up the steps. Tailing him was far easier than the Templar he had left, and he abducted the letter easily. That brought him no pleasure, however, and he turned smartly on his heel and backtracked to the seawall. If he was fast...

The assassin took to the roofs, hoping for a better vantage point as he scanned the streets. Templar crosses stood out against the other Christian divisions, and it wasn't long before he caught his target, still walking the seawall before coming to a stop in the shade of a building. The seawall ended in favor of the buildings, and tucked in a corner was a chest, seemingly forgotten, but the Templar put on his helmet and stood in front of it, hand on his sword and ready.

That made Altair even more interested.

He backtracked a little, landing at street level a block away and purposely winding his way north, looking for another ladder so he could position himself better. He would have to scale the row of buildings down, with nothing but the ocean cliffs beneath him, but it would be worth it for the blood he would spill. The assassin plotted his route very carefully, wary of any noise he made. Eventually he landed on a small tiled overhang, his feet silent. Taking only a moment to catch his breath, he extended his blade and swung himself over the overhang, swinging slightly before falling lightly on his feet.

At the last moment the Templar sensed him, spinning around and beginning to draw his sword, but Altair leapt over the chest and plunged his blade deep into the man's neck.

"Your master will learn nothing this day," he whispered into the enemy's ear, and smiled openly when the Templar realized his work had been for naught before landing in a heap on the ground.

There was little time after that. Altair cracked open the chest with his bloody blade and looked through the contents. Anything paper he took for himself to examine later, but mostly it seemed to hold expensive fabrics and perfumes. It was a lady's trunk.

Unable to determine more after that, Altair jumped up to the overhang and climbed back up to the roof. A moment later a city guard patrol came across the body.

He was covered in sweat again, the sun bearing down on his back as he darted over rooftops before finding a sky garden to hop into. Taking a deep breath, he looked through his plunder. The chest letters were useless, love letters from a woman, likely the Templar's betrothed. The letter he had filched, however, proved much more insightful after he had translated the French:

_Master:_

_Work continues in the Chain District of Acre, though we are concerned about William's ability to see this through to the end. He takes his duties a bit too seriously, and the people may reject him when the time comes. Without the aide of the treasure, we can ill afford an uprising, lest it recall the King from the field, and then your plan will be for nothing. We cannot reclaim what's been stolen until the two sides are united. Perhaps you might prepare another to take his place - simply as a precaution. We worry that our man in the harbor will become increasingly unstable. Already he talks of distancing himself. And this means we cannot rely on him should William fall. Let us know what you intend that we might execute it. We remain, ever faithful to the cause._

So even the brotherhood doubted William's ability. Altair inferred that these men were looking for charismatic leaders. Perhaps that was why Abu'l threw his parties, to garner favor with the citizens? William was not as successful, it seemed, and the murdered Templar thought the man too diligent. Once more there was reference to a stolen treasure, and all Altair could think of was the ornamental piece of silver in Solomon's Temple. He shook his head; unable to equate the paperweight as something with the power that these men seemed to place on whatever it was they spoke of. Besides, Malik had stolen a _Templar_ treasure, and Altair doubted a brotherhood that had Saracen members could be so strongly affiliated with the assassin's enemies. Besides, theirs was not the only splintered faction amongst the Holy Land. There were more than Crusaders and Saracens. What did two sides united mean? Perhaps a reference to the master's plan, which the Templar alluded to the priest. And now there was a third man in Acre, in the harbor. Altair expected another visit to the city before his work was done. The man sounded like a coward; perhaps that kill would be easy.

So far he had learned much about William's character and how others saw him. He also had learned that he kept to the citadel. It was a solid start to the investigation, with the added bonus with getting another fragment to the puzzle of what connected all these men. Al Mualim's words be damned, he would learn everything he could about this organization, even if he had to challenge the Master himself.

Altair let the flow of the streets pull him back to the citadel. If this was where William was hiding, he would need to study it and it's weaknesses. He wouldn't make it to the Bureau that night, but Jabal wouldn't mind. The times to get in were short so he doubted it was expected. The sun was almost set when Altair finally turned away. He would find somewhere in the city to rest, likely an abandoned home in the Hospitalier district.

The plan was derailed, however, as he passed the back of the Cathedral.

"And what do we have to show for it, graves and widows and orphan sons. Richard promises a better tomorrow, unspoiled land and new beginnings, but he's delivered only death. We are too soft with our enemies. With one hand we engage him, while the other tries to embrace! What good can come of this when a King cannot decide what he truly wants? But William knows, if we would only listen!"

This sounded very interesting.

"William of Montferrat had a vision, saw a way to end our pain. It's him we should follow; it's him who'll lead us to victory. Stand up friends! Do not allow yourself to be sent to slaughter based on the whims and wishes of an uncertain king! We must rely on men who are stronger in their convictions, men like William of Montferrat!"

The waning light left many shadows for the assassin to hide in. Torches were being lit and the crowds were starting to thin. The herald likely wouldn't be here much longer. This was to Altair's advantage. Jabal wouldn't mind his being late for a chance investigation.

The herald did indeed start winding down. Within a half hour, the herald's last breath and started down the steps. He was talking quietly with some of his listeners.

As the crowd thinned further, Altair rushed forward, appearing to be in a rush, and bumped squarely into the herald, knocking him down the wide steps roughly.

" _Desolée_!" he cried out in fluent French without a trace of an accent. " _Desolée, desolée_!" Altair ran down the steps and pushed the town-crier down another flight of stairs, appearing to still be a klutz. He offered apologies and excuses in continuous French, something the herald clearly didn't understand. When Altair reached down again to help, he leaned in and whispered in clear English, "Come with me..." his voice dripping menace.

Once more offering excuses and promises of aide in French, he dragged the stunned crier to a darkened alley. Alone at last, Altair wasted no time shoving him face first into a stone wall, then grabbing his arm and twisting it sharply. He kept pulling on the arm until there was a _pop_ to indicate that the shoulder was dislocated.

"Stop! Enough, enough!" the herald grunted, not fooled at Atlair's play of French given the hissed English. "What is it you want? Gold? I've a few pieces on me. Take them. Take them and go."

"It's not gold I seek, but information," Altair replied coldly.

"I know nothing!"

"You know William. Tell me how to reach him."

"It's impossible. He meets with the King."

Damn. Richard was there. When? Jabal made no mention of this.

"Now?"

"He arrives tonight," the herald grumbled, his shoulder likely very painful as Altair kept his hold.

"And when does he leave?"

"Three days. He can't stay long, he must return to the field." The man gave a sharp, painful laugh. "But it won't help you. They're sure to argue, and then William will retire to lecture the soldiers, so it always goes: Richard berates William and William berates his men. He won't see you."

Altair gave a cold smile. "I already told you; _I_ need to see William. I never said he needs to see me."

"Then our business is done," the herald scoffed.

"No yet, I'm afraid. There's one last thing I need from you."

"What is it?"

"Your life." The blade easily slid between ribs and pierced the heart. The man didn't even gasp as his eyes widened and then he fell.

Altair left the body in the dark alley. He started heading north, intent on the Hospitalier district's abandoned rubble for shelter for the night.

His investigations thus far had provided much information to think on. Richard's arrival some time that night was neither worrisome, nor troubling, but it was startling. The English King was supposed to be with his troops, heading to Jaffa. What had brought him back and would he stay long? While having Richard there would not interfere with Altair's mission that did not change the fact that it _would_ make things more difficult. And after two missions gone awry, Altair did not relish the idea of added difficulty.

As he flitted from rooftop to rooftop, a solitary soldier in the streets caught his eye. It was one of Richard's men, easily identified by the red and white quadrants of his tunic with a stylized lion on his chest. What caught Altair's eye, however, was the small bundle of flowers he carried.

It reminded Altair, for all the ugliness of war, assassinations and the cruelty going on in the Holy Land, there were still simple, good people who wanted to just live their lives. Much like he dreamed he might have with Adha.

Altair let out a wistful sigh. He would find Adha again. But he doubted at this point if he could have that quiet, simple life. Even with her. However, while he would miss that possible life, Altair was happy with the life he currently led. He had learned. He was working towards a path of wisdom. And if he lost his life for the Order, at least he knew he was working towards peace and making a better world.

...That reasoning sounded far too much like those he had killed...

Altair shook his head. Now was not the time for such thoughts.

"There he is!"

Altair looked down to the streets, already down in a crouch, anticipating he'd been seen and pulling a throwing knife out to deliver to whomever would raise the alarm.

But the shout had not been for Altair. Below him, the romantic soldier staggered forward as four men emerged from the shadows. The four also bore the crest of Richard emblazoned on their chests. What was this?

Altair skimmed the rooftops, getting closer to the confrontation.

"Well," one of the attackers drawled in low-brow English. "One of Richard's dogs, alone in William's city! Par-lay you English?" The others laughed.

" _Couchons_!" the soldier spat back, trying to stand but unable to balance himself. Likely struck in the head, "Traitors! The King is Richard! Not that harsh William!"

Of course, since the soldier spoke French and the attackers spoke English, there was no understanding each other. But Altair _did_ understand. And the idea of fewer of William's men for when he completed his mission was indeed appealing. This soldier wanted a simple life. Altair would help.

He leapt down in the dark alley, landing softly in a cart of hay. He slipped out and swiftly crept through the shadows. None of them saw him coming, all focused on the romantic soldier. The first attacker was the furthest back and Altair's hidden blade buried itself in the man's jugular as smooth as candle wax. He eased the body down and was on a second attacker. It was again an easy kill.

The remaining two were fiercely kicking the soldier, so intent that they didn't notice the lack of cheers and jeers from their companions. But Altair knew he couldn't take one down without the other noticing. So Altair deftly attacked both at once. A throwing knife embedded itself into the spokesman's shoulder as Altair grabbed the other man's face, pulling back, throwing him off balance as Altair dug his hidden blade into the man's back and through a lung. Altair let the man drop to choke on his own blood and turned to the last attacker.

The throwing knife had been pulled out and thrown aside and the spokesman growled English curses. Altair did not reply, pulling out his long sword. The crass Englishman, despite being bloodied, ran forward with his own sword, which Altair easily deflected, kicking the exposed legs and bringing the man to his knees. From there it was simplicity itself for Altair to bring his sword down to the corner of the man's neck and go through the collarbone.

" _Merde_ ," the soldier coughed.

" _Êtez-vous bien_?" Altair asked, sticking to French.

"Ah," the beaten man sighed. "Thank the Lord for such small favors."

"Don't thank me until you are well," he replied. "Where are you stationed? Is it close by?"

"Rrrgh," the man groaned. "My destination is closer... Though I hate arriving like this..."

"It can't be helped."

The soldier was able to stand, though he leaned heavily on Altair. "First chance to visit my wife and those pigs ambush me. A plague on that damn William and his army of traitors."

He stumbled and Altair steadied him.

"Dear Lord," the soldier exclaimed. "A Saracen?"

Altair grit his teeth. His biracial heritage was known to the Order, but he favored his Muslim father, preventing many hardships. Now, in a Christian city, it would seem to be a source of prejudice.

"Only half," Altair ground out, the sore spot of defending either half of his heritage throbbing sharply.

"Sorry," the soldier muttered. "I'm Pierre. A very minor noble of no import. I can't offer much as thanks."

"I didn't do this for thanks," Altair replied, still feeling bitter. "Nor do I need your gratitude."

"Then I'll say no more on the subject," Pierre replied quietly. "If you ever need a hand and are near his Majesty, I'll do what I can. But it is your choice to find me or not."

Altair nodded, stuffing the old pain back down and turning as the man directed.

They were walking down the street when a door further down opened, a woman with a lantern looking about worriedly.

"Jeanne!" the soldier called.

"Pierre!" she cried, rushing toward them with her light. "Pierre, my love, I was so worried!"

"Help me get him inside," Altair asked quietly. The woman nodded, some brown hair working loose from her ponytail.

The home was small, lending truth to Pierre's claim of being a very low-ranking noble. Jeanne rushed about, lighting several candles and oil lamps. With the added light, Altair had her ripping cloth into makeshift bandages while he helped Pierre shrug painfully out of his armor and shirt so that Altair could get a better look at the bruising.

"I am not a physician," he said shortly. "But I have had and worked with a lot of the injuries resulting from fights or battle." The fact that he had set aside his swords and knives attested to _how_ he knew such injuries. "Your armor took the brunt of the damage, but you will no doubt be tender. It's the blow to your head that's worrisome."

"To the _head_?" Jeanne squeaked, her hands pausing in the basin of water that was being used to clean the gash along Pierre's hairline.

"Threw a rock at me," the soldier muttered. "Cowards couldn't even face me face-to-face."

Altair cut in before the wife could offer any sort of response, refocusing attention on himself. "The fact that you are conscious and coherent is a good sign. I don't think your actual brain was damaged, but it _is_ a large gash."

"What needs to be done?" Jeanne asked, reaching out and grasping Pierre's hand.

Altair sat back. "It's a difference between Saracen medicine and Christian. Could you listen and _do_ what a Saracen would or will you be stubborn and stick to your Christian ways?"

"Whichever keeps him _alive_!" the wife hissed fiercely.

Altair nodded. "You Christians, from what I've seen, don't believe in staying clean," he said bluntly. "While the same could be said for the Saracens, that is only because water can be extremely scarce here. But physicians _do_ keep water and wine handy to ensure that _wounds_ stay clean." He fixed his eyes on the young couple. "That gash needs to be kept clean. While a bandage will do so, it _will_ need to be changed every few days so that the wound stays clean. If you don't, illness will strike and that will make things worse, if not kill you outright."

Pierre started to protest, but Jeanne put her hand right over his mouth. "I'll see too it, kind sir."

Altair nodded and started to pick up his weapons. He still needed to find a place for the night and the late hour would make the city guard more suspicious if he did not get moving.

"And where do you think you're going?"

He turned; surprised to hear the almost authoritative tone coming from such a small woman.

Pierre was smiling. "Sorry, friend, but you'll be staying here for the night."

Altair blinked. "I would never impose..."

"Nonsense, you can instruct me how to clean his wound and change his bandages."

"Now, Jeanne, I'll be leaving with the King, _I'll_ need to know these things."

There was a fierce glare between husband and wife in a contest of wills, before both looked back to the assassin. "You're staying here," they said in perfect unison.

"I-"

Altair didn't even get a chance to protest as Jeanne hustled him to a seat at the table and started to hand out food for dinner as conversation flowed between herself and her husband, each trying to entice the assassin into their talk.

The following morning, Altair left, glad for a night in a proper bed after all the days in the saddle just getting to Acre. The young couple had been... amusing. They loved each other greatly and would willingly override the other if it came to keeping them safe. And as much as the night had made Altair hold back a tiny, warmed smile, there was still a part of him that stung, thinking of the time he'd lost with Adha thus far. Of the time Malik had lost with Kadar.

He pushed it all aside and wished the young couple happiness.

Altair wandered the streets for most of the morning, putting aside the feelings that the night had brought and shifting his mind once more to the investigation. Once he felt himself properly sorted, he once more climbed the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and this time ascended to the top of the cross.

The view was spectacular. The vast sea spread out behind the citadel under the pale blue sky and, at this height; there was a steady breeze to keep him cool as the air thickened. But the best part was Altair's small telescope, two lenses bound in leather. With it, he started sketching a map of the citadel and the interior, what he could see of it, and the positions of the archers as they patrolled the ramparts.

High above the world, he munched on bread and even started drafting some of his report on what he had learned thus far. The citadel would not be easy to access. Inside, with both William the regent of Acre, and Richard, there for some meeting, it seemed that guard patrols were almost doubled. Likely they were both William's and Richard's men, each keeping their lord safe. He sketched out patrol routes that he could see and tried to think how he might get in.

Near mid-afternoon he was no closer to an answer as he descended the massive church. He still had two days before Richard left, and Altair would rather deal with William then. Richard and William would argue and William, frustrated and irritated, would be distracted, the perfect time to strike. But Altair needed a way _in_ for that skeletal plan to work. He wanted to walk around the large square in front of the citadel, but someone might notice him if he was there every day. So he wandered back into the city. He kept his ears open for gossip, mentally switching from English to French to Latin to German as necessary. Many guilds were fed up with William's taking of their stock and Altair overheard several bold (unrealistic) and imaginative (impossible) plans to try and take down the regent. As Al Mualim had said, listen to the people and one knew the evil of the man in charge.

He had dinner at a small inn, but heard nothing more, though a debate about Aesop's fables and the adage of "God helps those who helps themselves" versus the words of the Bible and waiting to see if He would help if He so wished, was very interesting.

After eating, he was out on the streets again and starting to make his way back to the Bureau. Jabal had said that it was safe to stay there and Altair wished the sleep of a bed again, if he could manage it.

He was wandering west, getting closer to the Bureau when a familiar white flashed across the street in front of him and ducked behind some crates, crouching down and trying to appear as small as possible. In fact, the small white ball was almost trembling. That just wouldn't do.

Altair slid forward, his steps light and silent as he approached the small bundle of fear. "Safety and peace, brother," he said quietly.

"Oh God, don't kill me!" The _tagelmust_ of the young assassin was askew, his eyes wide, and as he turned he raised his arms in a classic defense that Rauf taught for hand-to-hand. "Oh, it's you Altair," the apprentice let out a heavy sigh, sinking down to lean back against the wall. "You scared me," he mumbled, before he seemed to realize whom he was talking to and stiffening.

Altair sat down with him and offered some of his bread, effectively blocking view of the young apprentice from the street. The shade the crates provided made sure that no one would think twice of why they were there in the hot, sticky evening.

The apprentice lowered his mask to munch on the bread and Altair let him be. Better to calm down and be able to speak than shout in surprised panic. The apprentice took more time than Altair liked to calm down, always stiffening and almost jumping if he saw the red and white of Richard's soldiers walking by their nook of the street. This at least proved that the apprentice had sharp eyes, since Altair, after discerning what was spooking him, used his larger frame to try and block any such views.

The apprentice finally looked down. "I am sorry," he apologized. "I am Stephen and Richard's men are after me, two of them to be exact."

"And how did this come about?" Altair asked, keeping his town quiet, seeking not to rattle the young apprentice.

"I was trying to strike a deal with them, but I realized that they were toying with me, so I ran away." Dejection poured off the young apprentice and Altair could not help but remember some of the novices he had helped Rauf train back in Masyaf, who were always disappointed when they could not do something on the first try.

Altair shrugged. "Every failure is a chance to learn." As he himself was doing. "Think of how things went wrong, see how it can be changed, improved upon, and ensure that the mistake is not repeated."

Stephen looked down. "And how can I do that when I'll be dead by nightfall?"

To this, Altair only glared, unable to believe that this apprentice's eyes didn't see what was right in front of him.

The light was slow in dawning. "Ah! You shall be the angel of death, and collect their heads before they collect mine!"

Altair nodded. "Now, describe the men that hunt you."

The apprentice did so, with surprising detail, showing that his sharp eyes were not only for when he was in a panic.

Stephen hesitated for a moment, before saying, "When it is done, I shall tell you of the deal."

Al Mualim's decree. This was fine by Altair. Stephen needed to learn the art of give-and-take and this was just another lesson.

He left Stephen behind the crates, trusting the lengthening shadows to hide him while he walked the streets. The narrow streets were lit by lanterns hung at regular intervals, though the alleys remained pitch black. The pedestrians were steadily decreasing, leaving only the soldiers and guards.

And the drunks.

Altair could not stand the drunks. Christians used wine as part of their holy rituals, but where Saracens were forbidden it, they only partook because fresh water was hard to find. Christians seemed to like their sacrament of communion as often as a jug was in front of them. It was a trade off. Muslim severity or Christian drunkenness. Altair would never understand religion.

Twice, as Altair walked the streets, some foul-smelling, staggering, drunk spotted him and had to either wrap an arm around him to sing drunken drinking songs or grab him to buy them another drink.

Disgusting.

Worse, it drew attention that Altair did not want. He was just a scholar rushing home, not an armed assassin that slobbering drunks needed to assault with horrendous breath.

The first one of his targets was on a street that slowly descended east, looking through baskets and shrubs. Altair had no problem sneaking up behind and grabbing the helmet and yanking back and off balance so that he fell easily onto his hidden blade. Altair spared the man a glance and shook his head before heading into an unlit alley. Stephen had approached higher-ranked captains, not foot soldiers. No wonder he had been found out. They were more observant than serfs plucked from the farm.

On the next street, he started backtracking, looking for the white-and red of Richard's men, until he saw another captain making his way around a crossroads. Altair ducked behind one of the trees that flanked a monument of some sort and watched the target walk by. Then, ducking _another_ drunkard, Altair deftly lifted the chain mail surrounding the man's neck and plunging his blade through the soft tissue.

He was gone before the body hit the ground.

Altair weaved easily through the streets, the increasing darkness making him just a shadow, until he returned to the nook behind a stack of crates.

Stephen looked surprised. "Already?"

Altair smiled.

"What a relief it is to know that I am safe! Thank you, Master."

He shook his head. "I have not regained the rank of Master, and am undeserving of the title until I do. Now. Explain how those guards sought your life."

"I... tried to make a deal with the citadel guards to leave the gates open, even when the alarm sounds." It seemed Jabal was trying to aide him, even though Altair was forbidden from asking help of the other assassins. "I failed you," Stephen's head bowed. "So now your only escape from Richard's citadel will be to climb the fortress walls. Forgive me."

Altair bit back a sigh. "An assassin is always prepared for the unexpected. I already knew escape would only come from the fortress walls," he replied, pulling out his map and sketches of the citadel. "Even getting inside will be difficult, as Richard's men and William's will be extra vigilant."

Stephen shook his head. "You are above me in rank, I am to _aide_ my superiors. And I could not do something as simple as ensuring you an escape."

"Then _learn_ from it," Altair said with more edge. Even now, as Stephen's guilt echoed Altair's own over the disaster of Solomon's Temple, one needed to _learn_ from it and move on. And quickly. One could not fall apart in the middle of a mission. "If you must wallow in this guilt, then wait until you are safe at the Bureau. Assume danger is always there until you are at the Bureau, thus you are prepared when something goes wrong. At the Bureau, you can wallow in pity and guilt, but _not_ until you are there."

"Yes, Master," Stephen replied. Altair waited as the young apprentice collected himself, yet again.

Altair glanced at the sky. "We won't make it to the Bureau by nightfall. Come, we'll find shelter in the Hospitalier district."

"Of course."

Together, looking like a pair of brothers, Altair led them deeper into Chain district to help Stephen clear his head and remove himself from a highly stressful afternoon. They talked quietly, and Altair was pleased to know that the young apprentice was quite fluent in English, though he still bore an Arabic accent. That would fade with time, particularly here in Acre. He quizzed the young assassin, subtly, so that Stephen didn't even realize Altair was assessing his knowledge. He doubted Stephen would ever make it to a full assassin, at least as he was now. His emotions tended to run wild, though that may be his age. But the young apprentice had an incredibly sharp eye and a memory for detail that was like a painting. He'd make a good journeyman with more training. Someone to have a permanent position in a city and gather information for the _rafiq_.

The sun was setting on the horizon as they walked up along the wall of the city that looked down to the sea below. Stephen was laughing at a story he was sharing of his time as a novice back in Masyaf when Altair quickly guided them to a bench.

"Master?"

"Further up the wall, about twenty yards."

Stephen reported instantly and accurately, as he had when Altair had quizzed him earlier. "Five soldiers, Richard's by their surcoats. Four low-level, one of rank. Two of the foot soldiers are guarding against the pedestrians from interrupting the three who are harassing a priest. White cloak and simple cross." Stephen frowned. "The white robes tell what order of priest he is, but I don't know what color is what. Normally I only ever see brown or black."

Altair nodded. "Has the priest done anything wrong?"

The young apprentice blinked. "Master?"

"Use your ears and eyes. Has the priest really done anything wrong?"

"Um..."

Altair leaned back, quietly looking out to the see as if to observe the beauty of the sunset. Stephen leaned back as well, his face facing the sunset, but his eyes focused on the accosting soldiers down the seawall.

"I am uncertain, Master," Stephen said quietly. "I cannot hear well enough at this distance. The waves against the cliff are too loud."

Altair raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you remedy this?"

Stephen stared blankly before grinning sheepishly. "I get closer."

"Go and report back."

The apprentice nodded, standing and ambling down the street, looking around in awe like a visitor. Not the best disguise, given that Altair doubted any Saracen would be visiting Acre after the slaughtering of Saracen prisoners, but Stephen pulled it off well. Altair watched as Stephen stopped off by a small stand along the wall that was starting to pack up but willingly haggling when Stephen expressed interest in the belt buckles that the metal merchant was selling. The merchant was the closest to the harassment and Altair would not have gotten so close, but if Stephen could hear, then it would work. He could critique later.

The apprentice came back and Altair leaned forward to look at the buckles and talk quietly with Stephen. "And?"

"I think the priest is innocent," Stephen said promptly. "The soldiers did not like that he was carrying and reading the Quoran. The priest was saying that he merely wished to better understand how the Saracens thought. In all my time here in Acre, the Christians have not outlawed the Saracens from practicing their faith or from priests of either religion to debate or talk."

Altair nodded. "Very good. Now what should we do?"

"Do?" the apprentice asked. "We were heading to the Hospitalier district."

"So you would have us pass by? When those in power bully those below them?"

Stephen frowned. "Would that not risk the Brotherhood?"

"If things went wrong, yes. But is the right thing to do easy?"

The apprentice looked down. Clearly no one had talked to him about the deeper meanings behind the Brotherhood. The things Altair himself was learning all over again.

Altair waited a few more minutes. "An assassin can always work alone, but working with others is always preferable. Mostly, we use the Order as our allies. But for brothers who are permanent residents, they need a network of associates within the cities as well." Altair paused to let that sink in. "Your connections may not know of your true intent, but will be willing to aide you should you so need it."

Stephen sat for a time, thinking, before realizing what Altair was getting at. "Oh! So if we help this priest, he may repay us down the road!"

Altair shook his head. That was how he had thought originally, and that was what started him down the path to trouble. "No. You help him so that you have a contact. A friend. Someone who can speak freely with you and not lie or hide facts and be wary of. You seek a friend. How much you trust of what you do is up to you, but he will be your defender and ally. The start of a network that you can turn to for things that you can't do yourself."

"Ah... I see." The apprentice was looking overwhelmed again. Time to redirect.

Altair turned to study the harassment. "How would you suggest approaching this?"

Stephen balked. "I haven't started learning about fighting yet! I have no idea!"

Altair scoffed. "Have you learned from Rauf or not?"

"But... but! They're trained soldiers!"

"Are they?"

The apprentice looked at him blankly.

Altair bit back a frustrated sigh. "Where do Christians get their foot soldiers?"

"From the fields."

"So what were they before they became soldiers?"

"Farmers."

"So how well do they fight?"

Understanding flew across Stephen's eyes. "Any basic training they have will be far less than what Rauf has pounded into us!"

"Exactly. Now, how do we approach?"

They plotted together for a few moments, trying to determine whom Altair's hidden blade would find. Stephen did have a small knife with him, but was more accustomed to fighting barehanded after much of the metal in Acre had been confiscated during the siege to make weapons.

They finally stood from the bench and started to slowly walk to the scuffle, Altair slinging a brotherly arm around the young apprentice and the two laughing like they were reminiscing some amusing memory.

The two foot soldiers standing guard eyed them in an attempt at intimidation. It was pitiful and blew over Altair harmlessly. Stephen was not so unaffected, but Altair's words about how they were facing farmers seemed to give him more confidence.

The two guards went down without even a blink, Altair's from his hidden blade and Stephen's from his knife to the neck. The next two who went down seemed to realize something was wrong and put up more of a fight.

Barely.

Altair's second foot soldier went down with a broken nose and a pained groin while Stephen started wrestling with his. That just left the captain, which Altair started to fight with his fists, as per Stephen's wise suggestion that the priest may not like people dying in front of him. Not that they wouldn't die later, Altair was far too good to let these men live to identify them. Stephen agreed and was clearly endeavoring to kill the man he was beating by rupturing organs.

The captain proved to be more competent than Altair expected and he was soon giving ground to regain his footing. But really, the man was no match for Altair. One swift kick and the captain's heavy armor overbalanced him, sending him leaning to the side. One more punch and the man went over the seawall.

He turned to see Stephen helping up the priest. "Are you alright?" he was asking.

"Thank you, young man," the priest replied. "And you, young man," he turned as Altair approached. "I don't know what I would have done if you two hadn't shown up."

"It is our pleasure," Stephen said. "My brother and I would only do what any would."

"Brother?" the priest asked, clearly looking between the Christian Stephen and Altair's Muslim face.

"We share a mother," Altair replied. "I was an... unfortunate result of a bad encounter."

The priest made a sign of the cross. "You poor boy. You have done nothing wrong to endure the hardships you have likely faced."

Altair shrugged. "My looks and Muslim name make for little trouble in other cities."

"Ah, and that must be why you," the priest turned to Stephen, "hide in Saracen robes. So that the small-minded don't show how stupid they truly are."

Stephen gave a small chuckle. "Shall we escort you to your church?"

Chuckling the priest nodded. "Though 'chapel' might be a more accurate moniker. I am Brother Jacob. I thank you again for your aide."

They walked through Chain district, heading into the Hospitalier and chatting lightly. Jacob, it seemed, was a monk and not a full priest, who had a fascination with the Muslim Holy Book and how much was in common. Altair left most of the talking to Stephen, since this would likely be a contact for the young apprentice given that Altair traveled far too much. He only spoke when Stephen seemed to hesitate on the process of making friends with someone who wasn't an assassin. Altair led things at that point, keeping topics light and innocent, but using what he already had learned of Stephen to make the apprentice more amiable to Jacob than himself.

Stephen, once he realized how Altair was guiding him, caught on quickly and was able to take over without many more hiccups.

The left Jacob at his chapel, politely refusing lodgings, saying that they were on their way to where Stephen was apprenticing and the master wouldn't appreciate their being late.

Altair was pleased that Stephen picked up on it so quickly and, with the sun gone and the moon starting to rise, decided it was time to see how the apprentice did on the rooftops.

In this, Altair was reminded that he had been doing this far longer than his young companion and that there was a reason Jerusalem had the best rooftop runners and climbers. Acre, having been under a double siege, made anything that was on the roofs an open target. Stephen had no doubt tried to learn what he could, but he just didn't have the years of practice that he should have. And learning the basics under moonlight was not a good idea.

So Altair slowed his pace considerably and offered more basic pointers for just leaping from one roof to the next and how to land.

They were getting near the Bureau when Altair suddenly stopped, grabbed Stephen and yanked him down to lay flat on the roofline.

"Master Altair?" Stephen's voice dropped even further.

" _Templar_ ," he hissed. Below them, in an open square, between a pair of palm trees, a heavily armored Templar was directing workers with crates and wagons.

Stephen went both stiff and still, staring down at the red helmet and white smock below. Then he let out a long list of curses that he was far too young to have any business knowing.

"Shall we kill him?" Stephen asked, his body so rigid he was almost vibrating tension.

In this, Altair debated with himself _heavily_. The Templars were the enemy of the Bureau, and decreasing their number was always a good thing. However, Altair was with a young apprentice who was nowhere near experienced enough to even _shadow_ a Templar, let alone fight him.

"Why is a Templar here?" Altair thought out loud. Because this was the second Templar he had seen in Acre, and the Templars, if not with Richard's army, were spread far to thin. Finding two in once city was unheard of.

Stephen, clearly thinking this was another question aimed at him, answered quickly. "Because Richard is in Acre."

Oh of course. They were likely part of Richard's guard.

Which only made things more difficult. Gritting his teeth, Altair turned to Stephen. "I killed a Templar yesterday. What would the Templars think if two of their number died in one city, a city that their main force was not actually in?"

Stephen frowned. "That someone was targeting them."

"And is the Bureau currently safe?"

The apprentice frowned even further. "No, not yet."

Altair growled. "So what is our best course of action?"

Stephen looked away. "To do nothing."

Altair nodded.

"This feels wrong."

"I know."

They edged silently away from the edge of the roof.

It was almost midnight when Altair found a ruined house that was still defendable for him and Stephen to bed down in. He spent the hunt showing the apprentice how to assess the rubble for safety and defense and weighing that against structural integrity.

It was a long night and not one that Altair slept well with. Every fiber of his being wanted to go after that Templar, but he knew that he needed to control that urge. It would do no good; indeed, it would do great harm. His hatred of the Templars had caused his demotions and he needed to reign in such strong fury if he wished to avoid how he fell in the first place.

With a growl, Altair turned and tried once more to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though Altair still thinks that thinking slows things down, note that twice now he's chosen to do something other than killing a Templar on sight: once to pickpocket a letter, and one to keep the Bureau safe. He's learning... Work hard, Altair!
> 
> This was another history dump, William and Conrad and Richard. It's a shame the game's database isn't in effect in this game where you can look up all the famous people. Hope y'all are able to keep track of it all. It's also another break to touch on Desmond - that deadline is approaching...
> 
> And yay, we were able to get a Templar assassination! Take note, if you do the pickpocket mission, look north along the seawall and see a Templar guarding a chest - it was too convenient to pass up!
> 
> And we once more curse the lack of subtitles. "His army is greatest in all the..." what? We're pretty sure it's the name of a place, but could we make it out...? No, of course not. Sigh.
> 
> And we met Stephen. We like Stephen. Guess which investigation he is next time Altair's in Acre. Go on. Guess.
> 
> Next Chapter: Death of a Liege and a whole lot of sore arms.


	13. Death of a Liege

It was pre-dawn when he awoke Stephen, and the two made their way back to the Bureau along the rooftops. Altair was pleased to note that the young apprentice did better on the roofs with more light and he seemed to be taking the advice given him to heart and the effort was clearly improving his leaps. Guards were just starting to change shifts when the two made it to the fountain in front of the Bureau. Altair sat on the edge of the fountain, silently motioning for Stephen to go in first. After ten minutes or so, Altair followed.

"Altair," Jabal greeted. Stephen was nowhere to be seen. "What brings you back so soon? You sent Stephen ahead of you and I thought you'd be off investigating again."

"I've done as asked and armed myself with knowledge," Altair replied.

Jabal raised a snowy brow and pulling out a dusty tome. "Speak and I will judge." Clearly the old _rafiq_ did not think Altair would finish his investigations in two days time.

"William's host is large and many men call him master, but he's not without enemies. He and King Richard do _not_ see eye to eye."

"It's true, they've never been close," Jabal agreed, looking at Altair intently. That much information was obvious after all.

"This works to my advantage," Altair replied. "Richard's visit has upset him. Once the King has left, William will retreat into his fortress to brood. He'll be distracted. That's when I will strike."

Jabal narrowed his eyes. "You're _sure_ of this?"

"As sure as I can be," Altair replied, wondering where the questioning was coming from. The demoted assassin pulled out the maps he had been making when he studied the fortress from the cross of the cathedral, gesturing to where patrols were and how many guards were placed on roofs and catwalks, estimating how the numbers would reduce once Richard left. "If things change, I'll adapt."

"Then I give you leave to go," Jabal pulled out a white eagle feather. "End the life of Montferrat that we may call this city free. Is there anything that you need from me?"

Altair leaned over the counter to start going over what he planned and what route he would take. "Can you arrange for a large stack of hay here?" he asked. "I will have to escape via the citadel walls and climbing down will be much slower than a leap."

Jabal rubbed his beard. "Yes, I still have enough influence to manage that. Or at least send one of my journeymen to do so. But Altair, with Richard still in the city, you will be facing twice as many foot soldiers."

"He will leave tomorrow. I can slip in after Richard has gone, as all William's men will be breathing a sigh of relief."

"Hm. If it's all the same to you," Jabal replied, "I'll have a pigeon sent to you once Richard has left."

"As you wish," Altair bowed to the _rafiq_ 's wisdom. They continued going over the plans for most of the day. After they'd eaten a lunch that Stephen brought up from below, Altair decided to talk to Jabal about the young apprentice's training and what he'd observed.

Jabal actually laughed. "You will make a good instructor when you retire," he said. "Yes, he's still very young, even after all the time here under siege. But you are correct. He'll make a good journeyman, once he gets past his awkward stage."

Altair nodded. "Why not have one of your journeymen mentor him?"

The old _rafiq_ looked older. "Altair, how many men do you think I have?"

Something cold settled in Altair's gut. "A full city like this usually has dozens of apprentices and journeyman. Your words before indicated a great loss during the siege, enough that you took up active duty yourself. I'd guess just over a score."

Jabal gave a bitter smile. "A dozen, at best. Most, still just apprentices."

"Why?" Altair balked. "Why has Al Mualim not sent more to aide you?"

"Because this Bureau is watched. We cannot have men coming and going. Even if things are going better, that does not change that the curious still keep an eye on that."

"Then set up a temporary Bureau elsewhere. Or a few smaller shops so that the number is not noticed. Use pigeons to stay in contact."

"You've a good mind, Altair," Jabal said with a wizened smile. "Keep thinking like that and you'll be a _dai_ some day. But Al Mualim is still rebuilding and replenishing Masyaf. He cannot spare any for Acre, which is enough of a mess without inexperienced novices trampling about under foot."

Altair disagreed, but let Jabal change the subject back to his plans for William.

However, if Altair returned to Acre, like he suspected from the letter he'd pickpocketed that spoke of a man in the harbor... If Altair returned, Al Mualim's orders be _damned_ , he was bringing aide to this Bureau.

That night the assassin sat in the moonlit courtyard, deep in thought. Politics had never been his strong suit, but now that he was forced to look at it, he wondered if there was not more that he could do - even internally with the state of Acre or the time it seemed to be taking the Master to recover from the assault on Masyaf. The town itself had all but forgotten the attack, the three houses lost were in the process of being rebuilt - and quickly by Altair's inexperienced eyes; the gates had been fixed and the stables were serviceable. Al Mualim's quick action and sealing of the fortress had kept loss of life to a minimum, at least as far as Altair knew. Was the Order spread so thin that he could truly spare no one for the broken port city? Altair wondered, dozing on and off as he waited for the predawn light.

When it arrived, he stood and stretched, working his mind onto the mission, and looking inside briefly to see Jabal entering the back room.

"I'll return when the deed's been done," he said softly.

"Safety and peace," the _rafiq_ answered.

Altair climbed out.

Mist filled the morning air, making it even thicker and heavier than it had been for the last several days. Visibility was poor, but Altair made good time in arriving to the open-air market outside William's fortress. Customers and nobles were already filling the massive square, looking to get an early deal as businesses began. Altair filtered about, waiting for a sign.

He did not have to wait long. Drums and trumpets filled the air as the gates opened, two score knights marching quickly out of the citadel and making a human fence around the gate, pushing the watchers and lollygaggers back. Altair stood neither near nor far, closing his eyes and asking his eagle to awaken in his mind, that he might know what he was watching.

A redheaded man on a massive warhorse rode out; similar horses trailing out behind him like a living banner. His accented English clearly carried out over the crowd, and Altair quickly picked out the name of his target.

"Three thousand souls, William!" the redheaded man was saying. "I was told they would be held as prisoners, and used to barter for the release of our men."

An older man followed the massive warhorse on foot. His hair was still dark, but lines of age were carved into his face, and his irritation was plainly marked with those lines. This was the target: William of Montferrat. He looked up to the horseman, his rich voice clear; it did not carry as well as the redhead, but Altair could hear it as plainly as day. "The Saracens would not have honored their end of the bargain. You know this to be true, I did you a favor."

Altair worked hard to hold in a gro _wl Jesus Christ it wasn't Richard that killed the Saracens it was William that's screwed up no wait, stay focu_ sed as the redhead, Richard, King of the Crusaders, burst out in bitter laughter.

"Haha! Oh, _yes_ ; a _great_ favor indeed!" he said with unhidden sarcasm. Cold eyes fixed down onto the target. "Now our enemies will be that much stronger in their convictions, fight that much harder."

"I know our enemy well!" William defended, fighting to sound calm but unable to. He sounded like a petulant child. "They will not be emboldened, but filled with fear."

The two political powerhouses glared at each other, William staring up and determined that his king see his point, Richard staring down and frowning as his mind began to work.

"... Tell me, how is it you know the intentions of our enemies so well?" Richard asked, wheeling his horse around and circling the target. Altair knew the answer: because William worked with Saracens like Abu'l Nuquod and Tamir and Talal. And, too, he was making a ploy, leading Richard into a false sense of security - of that Altair could see plainly on the target's face, though he wondered if the Crusader king did. Politics were being played in this conversation; William was making a gamble and hoping he would win. "You who forsake the field of battle to play at politics?" Richard's voice clearly informed him that the regent had lost the bet.

"... I did what was right! What was just!"

"You swore an oath to uphold the will of _God_ , William! But that is _not_ what I see here." The horse made a complete circle, and Richard looked down on William with contempt. "No, I see a man who's _trampled_ it."

William _burned_ , his eyes raging with fire and his jaw working to contain the energy that coursed through him. Slowly, bitterly, he tried to save face. "... Your words are most unkind, my Liege," he said, choking his words out. "I would _hope_ I might have earned your trust by now."

Richard straightened in his saddle, shocked at the words. "You are Acre's _regent_ , William, set to rule in my stead! How must more trust is required?" His eyes narrowed again. "Perhaps you'd like my crown?" Altair perked at the accusation.

"You miss the point!" William hissed, his aged face twisted in frustration. "But this is nothing new," he added, under his breath.

"Much as I'd like to waste my day trading words with you, I've a war to fight. We'll have to continue this another time."

"Do not let me delay you then, Your Grace." But Richard was already galloping off, his cavalry following with great fanfare. Altair watched from the crowd, waiting for all the soldiers to follow their king. They did not.

William turned, his posture rigid. "I fear there will be no place for men like him in the New World," he muttered, the winds only barely carrying the words to Altair's ears. The regent turned to one of his captains. "Send word that I wish to speak with the troops, we must ensure that _everyone_ is doing their part. Warn them that any negligence will be _severely_ punished. I'm in no mood to be trifled with today."

"Yes, my Lord," the captain said quickly before darting off.

"The rest of you, follow me."

And, to Altair's great disappointment, he watched the two score men file back into the citadel, none of the troops having joined Richard's return to the ride to Jaffa. His estimates had been wrong. _All_ the men in the citadel were William's, not one belonged to Richard. Sneaking in on the ground was now out of the question; the assassin was good, but walking into the citadel, with more men coming in for William to scold, was imprudent. The soldiers would be alert for any trouble and quick to dispel it for the regent's favor, and Altair's whites did not blend in with the construction crews inside. He would have to climb.

Cursing and frowning, Altair looked up to the façade of the citadel, marking a route and assessing what the climb would be like. It would take hours, but it could be done. It would take hours for the captain to finish his errand and bring the men to William. He hoped that the sudden climb would work to his favor. Taking a deep breath, Altair walked slowly to the south side of the wall, spying a forgotten piece of scaffolding and hoisting himself up onto it. Above him was a balcony, and with a quick hop his hands easily gripped the bottom lip, letting him swing his legs to build the momentum to lift himself up. After that, there were a series of beams for lanterns he could climb.

That was the laborious part. There were several patrols on the parapets, and the rising sun splashing on his whites would make him an obvious sight for the market below, and all he needed was one alert guard to see the customers pointing and think to look down. If that happened he was doomed, and so he would make one leap to a beam and then wait, eyeing the crowds to see if any would see him, an constantly looking up to keep the guards in mind. When he felt it safe, he would leap again, and again he would wait. It was midmorning before he finally reached the top of the citadel wall, and he allowed himself a moment to sigh in relief at the accomplishment. The assassin had little time after that, however, as a guard turned a corner and spotted him, taking his bow to aim, but Altair was too quick, reaching into his belt and throwing a knife into his neck before the man understood what the sudden gesture was for. Grimacing, Altair realized he would have to be more careful with his knives. He still had only five, now four, and he would need to make them last.

He entered the structure, dragging the dead guard inside and hiding him in the shadows before climbing a ladder to the roof of the parapet. He glanced over the edge to see several carts of hay being pitched directly below him. Good. He had an escape for when his work was done. Nodding to himself, Altair walked around the parapet and looked out over the other side.

There was a guard directly below him at his post, and two two-man cells; one marching back and forth, the other standing at the far end. Altair licked his finger and held it up. He was downwind, meaning the sound wouldn't carry. Excellent.

As he waited for the walking pair to come forward and then walk away, the demoted assassin pondered William and the politics he had been playing. Richard caught scent of the fact that William had other plans, but the assassin doubted he understood just what the plans were. Altair himself did not know, either, but his muttered words about the Crusader king not being needed in the "New World," that seemed all too clear. William was planning, or his brotherhood was planning, to kill Richard. The letter spoke of the citizens rejecting William when the time came. Disfavored as he was with the king and unpopular with his own citizenry, perhaps William saw the biblical writing on the wall, and sought to grant a replacement of his own to the brotherhood. Conrad? The idea had merit. He, too, was in poor standing with Richard, but in good standing in securing the Jerusalem throne. Altair wondered what confessions the man would make as he bled out.

At last the pair met with the man below Altair, they talked briefly, low words about dreading their turn to be lectured to by the target, before they went off again to walk up and down the wall. Altair waited twenty heartbeats, until they were far enough away that the noise would not carry, before he swung himself over the edge of the parapet and sought purchase on the wrought iron gate beneath him, climbing down. The kill was quick and Altair dragged the body into the shrinking shadow the sun afforded as it climbed into the sky. He stood in the guards place, knowing that the sun would be in the guard's eyes and blind them to the danger they were walking towards.

Altair judged the two when they approached warily, waiting for any hint that they noticed the different uniform. One guard slowed down, moving to cover his eyes and get a better look, and the assassin took his opportunity, dashing forward as quick as an eagle, throwing a knife into one guard and leaping up onto the other, driving his blade into the soft tissues of his neck. Both fell almost silently, and Altair quickly looked up to see if the two at the far side had noticed anything.

They hadn't.

After dragging the two extra bodies back to the shade, Altair walked down the length of the wall as much as he dared before climbing over the side. There was a thin lip of stone, a decorative boarder, just below the line of the wall that offered just enough grip for Altair to shimmy along it, his feet taking purchase whenever he could. After twenty minutes of this he risked a glance up to gauge how far he had traveled. The two guards were still far down the wall, and Altair mentally groaned before going back to the task at hand. He rested every thirty minutes, giving his soon trembling grip a break before starting again, and by late morning he had at last cleared the guards. Climbing up for more secure footing, he grabbed a rock and threw it back the way he had come. The noise was just loud enough for the guards to hear it.

"Hey, you see the others lately?"

"Not for a bit. Should we look for them?"

"Have to, don't we? Don't want to find them nicking the wine and get caught by the Master."

"Aye."

Altair waited five heartbeats this time, before grabbing a third throwing knife and tossing it, one of the guards stumbling to the ground as he leapt on the second. The hidden blade did its job perfectly, and he used it again when he discovered the first guard still alive. Satisfied, Altair finally looked to his hands. They were shaking from the exertion of carrying his weight for so long. He shook them out as best he could, stretching and pulling at his arm and back muscles to loosen them for the climbing he still had to do. The door to the parapet was locked, and looking down Altair saw nowhere to land without either doing injury to himself or alerting the guards patrolling the roofs of the complex. He did, however, notice that he was at the very back of the citadel - as he had expected of course - but this fact made him happier when he realized that William was almost directly below him, gesturing wildly as he talked to a score of his soldiers before dismissing them for the next set.

He may not have as much climbing left as he thought.

Heartened by the thought, Altair hopped up to the arch of the door and stretched his arm out to reach the lantern beam above him. Hoisting himself up he shook his arms out again, determined to make them last, and crept up for a better vantage point. There was a ladder further down, on the other side of the parapet, he could use, and there were only two guards for him to take care of after that. Good, because he only had two knives left.

Slowly, Altair edged his way up to another lip, this time taking the time to get his feet on the narrow ledge and rest his arms and worked his way around the circular parapet. Once he was over the next wall he jumped down, rolling tightly to distribute the force of his landing, and made his way to the ladder. The citadel was _filled_ with people; carpenters, stonemasons, stable masters, and of course many, many, _many_ soldiers. Even the master assassin took a deep breath, swallowing his anticipation, and slowly climbed down the ladder. One throwing knife when to a guard on a roof opposite him, and slowly he made his way to the inner courtyard where the target was berating his men.

"This ends today. I will not suffer further degradation at his hands! For whether or not you see it, and you _should_ , this is your fault! You've brought _shame_ upon us all." He gestured wildly, his frustration from earlier making his motions overdone and exaggerated. He was utterly focused on his anger and getting rid of it. "Skill and dedication are what won us Acre, and they will be required to _keep_ it!" He paced before his men, shaking his head. "I have been too lenient it seems, but no more! You will train harder, and more often! If this means missing meals, missing sleeping, so be it! Should you fail in these tasks, you will learn the true meaning of discipline. Bring them forward!"

The soldiers parted, leaving two men to be dragged in front of the irate William. They trembled in fear, one already on his knees and praying. William glared at them, taking in their whimpering forms with a critical eye. "If I must make examples of some of you to ensure obedience, then so be it!" Both men cowered. "The two of you stand accused of whoring and drinking while on duty. What say you to these charges?"

"M-m-my Lord. P-Please," the one still standing said. "We meant no harm. We... we forgot ourselves. It will not happen again."

"No," the target said. "It won't." And with a flick of the eyes the two were slaughtered, impaled by their compatriots.

"Disregard for duty is _infectious_ ," William said, pacing about his men. "It shall be routed out and _destroyed_. In this way, we may prevent its spread." He glared at the ensemble of men, all staring at him blankly. " _Am I understood_?" he roared.

"Yes m'Lord!"

"Of course!"

"By your command!"

"Good, good. Return to your posts, filled with a new sense of purpose. Stay strong, stay focused, and we will triumph. Falter, however, and you _will_ join these men." He pointed rudely to the two bodies to emphasize his point. "Be sure of it! Dismissed!"

Altair watched, his back to the wall of the fortress, as the soldiers left the bodies and marched back out of the enclosed space. Altair could see the stiff backs wary of further discipline.

"Where is the next unit?" William demanded.

"Sir, they're at the other end of the city, they'll be here within the hour," a captain said, fighting to keep his voice level.

"Such incompetence," the regent growled. "Go and see what is keeping them!"

The captain all but ran out.

"Alone at last," Altair whispered. He had less than an hour, but that was more than he needed. The enclosure was empty for now save his target, and with shaky, tired arms Altair slowly, silently, began his descent. The sun was burning the last of the mist away, leaving a hazy atmosphere. The assassin's arms burned with the exertion, and he dreaded the climb back up the wall and out of the fortress, but he put the pain from his mind, focusing and asking his eagle for strength as he feet at last touched he ground. William's back was to him, muttering to himself.

"Rest now," Altair said, "You're schemes are at an end."

The blade sunk deep into William's back, puncturing organs and ripping through soft tissue before finding its home in a lung. William turned, seeing the hooded man and stumbling as he realized death had penetrated his body. "What do you know of my work?" he hissed, falling back against the table, his weight shoving it forward.

"I know that you were going to murder Richard and claim Acre for your son, Conrad," Altair said softly, speaking the most likely hypothesis.

William openly laughed as energy began to ebb out of him. "For Conrad?" he spat. "My son is an arse, unfit to lead his host, let alone a kingdom! And Richard? He knows no better, blinded as he is by faith in the insubstantial. Acre does not belong to _either_ of them."

"Then who?" Altair demanded. What was the goal of all the politics if not to secure Acre for someone?

William's legs gave out from underneath him, and Altair quickly caught him, laying him down.

"The city belongs to its people!" William declared with pride.

Altair stared, openly stared, at the dying regent. The Master, the Order, the _assassins_ bid that freedom belonged to the people, that peace _came_ from the people. To have William believe - and by extension the men he'd been sent to kill - to have them believe they were working for the people... Altair suddenly felt himself a villain. The assassin strove to deny the claim some way, _any_ way, so that this could make sense.

"How can you claim to speak for the citizens?" he demanded. "You stole their food, disciplined them without mercy, forced them into service under you."

William looked up to him and seemed to smile, as if to a child who did not understand. "What I did, I did to prepare them for the New World. Stole their food? No, I took possession, so that when the lean times came, it might be properly rationed." Blood from his pierced lung dribbled out of his mouth, and William coughed, color draining from his face. "Look around," he said, "My district is without crime - save those committed by you and your ilk. An as for the conscriptions..." he smiled again, his gaze beginning to loose focus. "They were not being trained to fight; they were being taught the merits of order and discipline. These things are hardly evil..."

It was true: order and discipline were not evil, were employed in his very Order. Saving food for lean times... Al Mualim did such every winter. It all made too much sense. How were these men any different from the assassins? But no, there had to be a difference. The Master let the village know every winter what he was doing. Assassins were not killed as examples to others, and education was not an ultimatum.

Altair looked to the dying William. "No matter how noble you believe your intentions, these actions are cruel and cannot continue."

The regent smiled, his face pale as a ghost. He laughed again, a weak, suffering chuckle. "We'll see how sweet they are, the fruits of your labor. You do not free the cities as you believe, but rather damn them; and in the end you'll have only yourself to blame." His eyes faded. "You... who speak of good intentions..."

Blood ran out of his nose and William of Montferrat finally slumped back, dead.

Altair suppressed a growl, grabbing his feather and soaking it in the regent's blood. He had wasted time with the debate, time he could not afford. Ignoring his shaky limbs he dashed from the body and leapt up the wall, climbing painfully to the roof and dashing southeast, across a platform and to the ladder that took him up to the citadel wall. No alarms yet. Hands numb and arms burning he climbed the parapet, once more using the exposed lip for his feet instead of his hands, shimmying his way around. He had almost completed the traversal when he heard the alarm bells ring. The body had been found.

Altair took a deep breath and steadied himself against the sheer wall. The soldiers would swarm the citadel, trying to catch the assassin by closing the gates and systematically checking every nook and cranny of the fortress. While they searched below, Altair was almost invisible above. Realizing that, he continued his journey around the parapet, landing shakily on the northwest wall. Waiting for nothing he pushed his legs into an all out run. The sun was nearly at its zenith, the shadows no longer hid his collection of bodies, and he all but leapt up to the iron gate, noticing only now that his hands were bleeding from all the climbing he had done.

He pushed it out of his mind, forcing himself up the parapet and darting along its narrow walkway. The hay was below him, now, and without pause he leapt from the parapet. Wind rushed through his ear and flapped at his coattails, the wall speeding by faster than a horse's gallop and the eagle inside him shrieked before he was covered in hay.

William of Montferrat sought to kill King Richard. Altair had assumed he meant to do this for his son, Conrad, but it seemed he was in error. William's wish was for the people to inherit the land, free from the whims of petty tyrants. A "New World" he called it. What was the meaning of those cryptic words?

Altair took the time to catch his breath as he rubbed the sweet smelling straw around his overworked hands, absorbing the blood slowly. He waited an hour in the hay, listening to the panicked orders of the guards as the citadel slowly emptied of its soldiers, all cast out into the city to find the murderer. Only when he was satisfied of the diminished number of soldiers in the square did he leave the hay, clasping his hands in prayer to hide the split and bloody calluses and slowly made his way northeast, edging around the busy market and to the safety of the streets.

"Ah, brother, there you are!"

Altair stiffened as a hand clasped his shoulder, and he spun around violently, fist raised to do violence, but saw it was Stephen, the apprentice informant, jerking back in surprise before laughing. He lowered his hands. "See?" he said, turning to a troupe of Christian scholars, "I told you he would sooner strike. Such has been his nature as long as I've known him."

"Ah, and it seems your brother has the right to do so," an old priest - Jacob, Altair recalled, said. "For one merely look at the state of his hands to know the trials he's suffered today."

The assassin quickly glanced down, taking a weary step back and eyeing the priests.

"Worry not, brother," Stephen said, "I have at last made friends in Acre! They will not do harm to family." He turned to the scholars. "Yes?"

"Yes, of course," Jacob said. "You saved my life the other day, one can hardly turn away those God has graced one with in his time of need." The elderly priest took one of Altair's hands slowly, giving the assassin time to allow it, before beginning to pray over it in Latin. He did so with the other and then patted the assassin on the back. "Our Lord is most generous when He grants favors, and so I've asked Him to help in the healing of your hands. Though it is perhaps ill of me, I hope the brigands responsible for such wounds fared worse."

"My brother is an excellent fighter," Stephen said easily, nodding sagely, "He has had to be, protecting himself but also me and any others he can find."

"Praise be, a Good Samaritan!" one of the other priests said, "No wonder you are armed so."

"The trials you must have faced..."

"The Saracen scum have not been too vile, I hope..."

"Be strong, boy; yours is a difficult life but God will provide..." said yet another.

Altair stared at all the priests, surprised at their kind words. He looked to Stephen.

"I told you I made friends," he whispered, a massive grin visible under the cloth covering his face. In a louder voice the apprentice said, "When the alarm bells began to ring I was certain you had gotten into another fight. Brother Jacob was kind enough to offer his assistance in finding you. Tell me, did you find work? Now that I am apprenticed I hope that you can give up your work as a courier. Was there any luck?"

"... No," Altair said simply, catching on. "None would have me."

"Oh, the injustice of it!" Jacob said. "To be turned away from good Christians simply because of one's race."

"Ah," said another priest, "But who can be blamed? The Saracens are but a plague on the land, spreading their vile heathen ways; any good Christian _should_ be worried when they see such filth. God makes the evil obvious; why, one merely needs to look at the color of their skin! Only a muddy soul would muddy the skin."

"No, no, that cannot be true. They are men just as we are; how can we judge them so? If they are heathens, then we must educate them on the ways of the true faith."

"How? We've tried and look what's happened! A plague upon Saladin, a plague upon his people!"

Altair and Stephen looked at each other, following the priests as they debated. Stephen shrugged his shoulders.

The boy's idea had been a good one, however. The two of them were invisible with the half dozen priests as they walked about the streets. Altair always kept to the middle of the group, where he most blended in so one could not see his two swords. Stephen offered wine to clean his hands and Jacob offered strips of his own robe to bandage them. With the leisurely pace of the priests, it was three hours before Altair and Stephen bid their goodbyes and made for the Bureau. Altair spent the time reticent to all but Stephen, reviewing what he had learned and trying to see what was true and what was not, to see what was exaggerated and what was sophistry. They waited in the alcove under the ladder until the sunset, Altair sending Stephen up first again before waiting and entering the Bureau himself.

Jabal was pouring over a book just as the apprentice disappeared in the trap door behind the counter. "What news?" the old man asked, a wry grin on his face.

"William of Montferrat is dead," Altair replied, showing his bloody feather. "With him his plans for betrayal." The assassin gave his report, detailing the climb and William's words to his men, and his final conversation with Altair.

The _rafiq_ nodded. "You've done well keeping Acre from his hands."

Altair barely heard him, his mind still absorbed in his own thoughts."... But why now? When the Crusaders require unity most? He could have waited..." As a Crusader, it would have been better for William to make his move when the war was nearly over, why had he begun his preparations so early?

"Waited for what?" the _rafiq_ asked, raising a grey eyebrow. "For Richard to return and discover his schemes? No, it was the perfect time for him to strike."

"... Strange. I was sure he meant to take Acre for Conrad, yet he claimed this was not his plan."

"You cannot trust the words of a snake, which even in death produces venom."

"Yet he had nothing but contempt for his son. He and Richard both. I saw as much when he and the king spoke, venom like that is not just for show." Altair looked to Jabal, hoping for answers. "I have yet to meet a dying man who would try to trick me in his last moments. Have you?"

Jabal frowned, casting his own mind back before shaking his head slightly. "I have rarely ever given a target time to speak, I must admit. I am often more concerned about getting the job done than hearing dying requests. I know others will give their victims time, some for gloating, but they rarely speak of it."

Altair's head tilted, and he frowned. "Men are at their most honest before they die, I have found, and have learned precious secrets by listening to their words."

"Such I have never heard of before," Jabal admitted, still leaning over his book, "but of William at least, I have my doubts. The man was ruthless to the captured Saracens; I cannot believe any of his words at face value. Old age, it seems, has made me prejudiced."

"I should discuss this with Al Mualim."

"Yes, my friend. Make haste for Masyaf. I am sure he is eager for news." At last the _rafiq_ straightened from his book. "Perhaps he can shed light on the mystery you cannot let go of."

_"It is also your duty to still these thoughts and trust in your master."_

Altair said nothing.

* * *

The ride back was long and tedious for Altair; his mind so heavy with thoughts and questions and confusion he slept very little, even on the remote mountain trails. None of his work made sense, the more he learned of his targets the more he became lost to their purpose. William had been the most disturbing, for his belief that the city belong to its people, his words about saving for lean times and teaching, all of it so like the assassins, all Altair could do was doubt.

There were many things in life that he doubted: people around him, his purpose without Adha, politics, religion, etc. His life in some ways was a sea of doubt.

But the one thing he never doubted, the one _person_ he never doubted, was Al Mualim, the living embodiment of their Order.

And now Altair doubted him.

What was the Master thinking sending him to kill these mysteriously connected men if they were not as evil as Altair had fist believed? Garnier healed people, in his own way, and Talal gave him the men and women to do it. William sought to help the people and Abu'l Nuquod held to his belief that he would not support a cause that scorned him. Did such people truly mean ill upon the Holy Land? Had his Master made a mistake? Was there something the great Teacher had missed?

And yet, when Altair had those thoughts, he knew that it was _he_ who had less information. That Master knew something Altair did not, and his refusal to share such wisdom was quickly becoming a detriment. Just how many hoops did Altair have to jump through before he was worthy enough to understand these things? Surely he had proven himself enough by now...?

But what if his Master was wrong...?

It would not do.

It would _never_ do to doubt Al Mualim, and Altair cursed his thoughts even as another assaulted his mind:

_"The question will be answered when you no longer need to ask it."_

Something seeped into the assassin then, a thick branch that he knew all too well: audacity. If he was not to ask, then he would so something else entirely. It was a gamble, to be sure, but the idea took root in his mind so quickly that all other possibilities were pushed away. It might not be as much of a gamble as he thought, though, as he remembered Al Mualim's words from even earlier: _"I should kill you for what you've done... But that would be a waste of my time and your talent."_ Yes, Altair decided, he would do it. He would gamble.

* * *

"Come, Altair," Al Mualim said when Altair entered the upper balcony of the library. "I would have news of your progress."

The assassin stared at his master, eyeing him, gauging him. His answer was slow in coming as a result. "... I've done as you've asked."

"Good, _good_ ," the master said, a hint of a smile peeking through his long beard. When Altair did not speak immediately his eyes narrowed only slightly, noticing the reticence. The treasure was on his table; the Master stroked it. "I sense your thoughts are elsewhere. Speak your mind."

Altair made his bet. "Each man I'm sent to kill speaks cryptic words to me; each time I come to you and ask for answers; each time you only give riddles in exchange," he said slowly, his voice building. Anger, irritation, confusion, frustration, and most of all doubt, all of it fueled him. "But no more."

Al Mualim's entire presence changed, the hint of warmth withdrawing as his voice became flat, neutral. "Who are you to say, 'No more?' "

" _I'm_ the one who does the killing," Altair explained. "If you want it to continue, you'll speak straight with me for once." An ultimatum. An ultimatum to his _master_.

"Tread carefully boy," Al Mualim warned, "I do not like your tone."

"And _I_ do not like your deception."

Anger at last began to hint in the Master's voice. "I have offered you a chance to restore your lost honor!"

"No lost!" Altair shouted, his emotions coming to a head. "Taken! By you!" He shook with anger, fists clenched at his sides as he began to pace. "And then you've sent me to fetch it like some damn _dog!_ "

Rage boiled across the master, and Al Mualim drew a sword from the table, brandishing it with ultimate skill at his student. "It seems I'll need to find another!" he shouted back, his face contorted with emotion of his own. "A shame," he added, "you showed great potential."

Altair played his hand: "I think if you had another you'd have sent him long ago!" His betrayal to the Order was great enough that he _should_ have been killed on the spot, as he had seen in the odd vision he had; but instead Al Mualim had chosen mercy. "You said the answer to my question would arise when I no longer needed to ask it. So I will not ask: I _demand_ you tell me what binds these men!"

Two men, two fighters, glared at each other over the table, one armed with a sword and decades of experience and knowledge and wisdom, the other armed only with willpower and a guess.

Al Mualim relented.

"What you say is true," he sighed, lowering his sword. "These men are connected, by a blood oath no unlike our own."

"Who are they?" Altair demanded.

" _Nom nobis domine non nobis._ "

Realization at last dawned. "Templars," Altair hissed.

" _Now_ you see the true reach of Robert de Sable."

"All of these men, leaders of cities, commanders of armies..." The slaver, the doctor, the merchants...

"All pledge allegiance to his cause."

"Their works are not meant to be viewed on their own, are they?" Altair whispered, almost to himself. "But as a whole..." The connections ran all together in Altair's mind. Abu'l Nuquod financed de Sable, Tamir giving arms to the men Talal and Garnier de Naplouse provided, and the men were sent to William, and perhaps others, to secure the cities. All off the books, all behind everyone's backs. But why...? "What do they desire?"

"Conquest," Al Mualim said simply, fingering the treasure. "They seek the Holy Land not in the name of God, but for themselves."

Acre, Damascus, Jerusalem, all in command of de Sable? But... "What of Richard? Salah ad-Din?"

"Any who oppose the Templars will be destroyed." Altair frowned at the thought, but Al Mualim saw it and raised a hand in gesture. "Be assured, they have the means to accomplish it."

"Then they must be stopped," the assassin said.

"That is why we do our work, Altair: to ensure a future free of such things." Al Mualim leaned forward slightly, pressing his hands on the table and eyeing his student as comprehension filled every corner of Altair's mind. It all made so much _sense_ now. His work would have been so much easier had he known...

"... Why did you hide the truth from me?" he asked slowly.

"That you might pierce the veil yourself," Al Mualim explained, leaning back and stroking the open egg. "Like any task, knowledge preceded action. Information _learned_ is more valuable than information _given_. Besides," he added, "your recent behavior had not inspired much confidence."

"... I see," he said softly, the old regret hitting him again.

"Altair, your mission has not changed," Al Mualim said, not unkindly, "merely the context in which you perceive it."

"And armed with this knowledge I might better understand those Templars that remain."

Altair thought, his mind working almost as fast as a horse, working to put the pieces together now, seeing the paths from one target to the next, remembering the letters he had pickpocketed and read.

"Is there anything else you want to know?" the Master asked.

Altair stared at the opened egg, wondering how it fit into the picture. "What about the treasure Malik retrieved from Solomon's Temple? Robert seemed desperate to have it back..." And all the letters talked about the stolen treasure. Was it...?

"In time Altair, all will become clear," Al Mualim said. "Just as the role of the Templars has revealed itself to you, so too will the nature of their treasure. For now take comfort in the fact that it is not in _their_ hands, but _ours_."

"If this is your desire." He had pressed enough. The time would come, as the Master had said.

"It is. You are restored another rank. Take back your weapon; use it to bring honor to the Brotherhood. Go to Jerusalem, Majd ad-Din's life is awaiting." Altair picked up the extra throwing knives, attaching them to his boot and securing them, stomping his foot and eyeing them, before he turned. "Altair?" Al Mualim asked. "Before you go?"

"Yes?"

"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?"

Altair gave a small smile. "Truth be told, Master, I didn't. I took a leap of faith."

* * *

He spent a few days in Masyaf, his body requiring a few days of almost solid sleep in a proper bed instead of on the road or in the rubble of Acre or a sky garden in Damascus. Once more rested, he did some training with Rauf, nudging novices in the right direction, bringing apprentices back to the path, and giving journeyman a goal to strive for.

Once Altair was set, he double checked his supplies, restocked on necessities, and brushed down his horse and checked all the saddle gear and making his way out of Masyaf. The journey to Jerusalem was a difficult one. Since Richard's men were advancing south every day and Salah ad-Din was chasing him, he had to maneuver carefully around both armies. While Jerusalem was farther inland, to the east, and Richard was aiming for Jaffa the nearest port, it gave him some leeway, but getting through two armies hardly seemed a wise course to take. Altair kept to the mountain passes, isolated, narrow and difficult to navigate, so well hidden that only the assassins knew of them. Another advantage was that he was higher in elevation, which lead to at least _somewhat_ cooler air as the high sun of summer continued to beat down on anything that breathed.

The ride gave him time to think. For all that Al Mualim had finally explained the connection of all these men he killed, there was still something that felt... wrong. Not with explanations or his mission, but with Al Mualim. When he was caressing that treasure from Solomon's Temple something was... odd. He couldn't explain why, but Al Mualim, for all that he sounded and acted like Al Mualim, didn't feel like Al Mualim. And while he felt Altair had more solid ground with the Teacher, he couldn't help but remember that Al Mualim had used some sort of sorcery to make all in the brotherhood think he had been beaten and stripped of rank while he made Altair himself believe himself stabbed and dying.

Something wasn't right.

He was _following_ the Creed. More than he ever had before. He was seeing the merits of it, how it worked, how it led things through wisdom and patience. But the more he followed the Assassin's Creed, the more Altair felt doubt for the master who had taught it to them all.

With a sigh, Altair kicked the flanks of his horse and let a hard ride sweep away such thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly, silly Altair for not further questioning Al Mualim when you had the chance. You'll totally pay for that later!
> 
> And, alas, the fic isn't done before Revelations came out, but the tribute will continue. We can't just leave everyone hanging, can we? Of course, now we have Revelations... and we've started playing... oo, pretty buildings, let us climb them, let us buy markets, let us make money (which aren't florins, what are they called...?), _let us recruit assassins!_ (fawns)
> 
> Er, getting back to the regularly schedules author's notes, there's not as much to say about this chapter. The last two were huge, over 10,000 each, and this one was much smaller - what a relief. Take note of Altair thinking outside the assassinations and how to handle/run the Order - specifically bringing help to the Acre Bureau.
> 
> This chapter also represents probably the ultimate climbing challenge for Altair. While there are other more difficult or impressive climbs throughout the game, every time we play this assassination and we're crawling our way around the edge of the citadel we have a "meta" moment where we realize, "Wow, this has to take, like, hours, and his arms have got to be killing him!" We had to include that. :D
> 
> This also about the closest we come to touching the hatred Crusaders and Saracens had for each other outside of in-game dialogue. Racism is something the two of us could never wrap our heads around, it makes no sense to us whatsoever, but it was such a big part of ye olden times (and, sadly, it keeps cropping up in the modern world, too); our very own family suffered being Irish in turn of the century America, the NINA signs and laws, and of course black/white delineation is for some reason a matter of course in public education - the Achievement Gap, etc. The whole topic makes us uncomfortable, and it was a challenge for us to get as close as we did in that puny little debate with Stephen's collection of scholars. We sincerely hope no one is offended and that all understand what we're trying to accomplish.
> 
> Next chapter: Jerusalem. That means more sparing with Malik, emotional upheaval, and memories. See you next week!


	14. Law Versus Justice

Approaching Jerusalem was difficult. Not in terms of riding or avoiding soldiers, but because Jerusalem held far too much for Altair and he doubted that would ever change. The Holy City still held the memories of Adha, and of Kadar, and of Baasir. Those were permanent. It would always make the city heavy. But Altair wished to somehow regain his friendship with Malik. He was just uncertain how. Previously, after killing the slaver Talal, they had argued over which of them Al Mualim would side with. Malik had always born a sharp tongue and Ibtisam had honed it into the finest of blades.

Altair did not like how long he spent thinking of how to approach his old and estranged friend, instead of how to go after his latest target, Majd Addin. He also did not like how his mind wandered to the scholar and his sons, the merchants who had attacked the guards in the _souk_ to help him get the slaver. The scholar's home was right inside the Lion's Gate and Altair wondered if he'd be welcomed there. Whether the faith was Muslim or Christian or Jewish, none liked a killer. The scholar's sons had known, or at least guessed accurately, that he had killed Talal. As a scholar who worked at Dome of the Rock, would Altair be welcomed in any way or would he contradict the teachings of his faith?

Altair pushed all thoughts aside when he crested a mountain and finally saw the Holy City spread out before him. Majd Addin was somewhere below and Altair would find and kill him. Perhaps he would discover more of what the Templars were after.

As he came down the road, Altair kept having to pull his horse to the side of the road as a thick stream of people continued to go up to the mountains. Carts loaded with supplies, people carrying huge packs of belongings, horses laden down with packages, all swept by, going _away_ from Jerusalem. Altair ended up dismounting to lead his horse more gently through the crowds. He had known that the Holy City's population was steadily decreasing, but he had thought most of that had to do with Talal's kidnappings and slavery ring than people leaving. He had never seen such a crowd leaving in mass exodus of the city.

Altair could not help but wonder if his target was behind this somehow. Or was it just that Jerusalem was the magnum opus of two armies wandering the Holy Land? People did not wish to stay in a place that seemed to trigger Crusades and wars, and so they left?

The demoted assassin stabled his horse and spent time brushing it down, taking care of the saddle and tack and ensuring the horse was well fed. Night was beginning to fall when he entered the city, easily slipping past sleepy guards by leaping from beam to beam above their heads. He landed almost silently in the Lion's Gate Square, barely a soul around to see him.

Barely.

"Young man?"

The throaty call came from the scholar he had been contemplating and Altair could not believe the chances of him seeing the same scholar he'd seen the last time he'd entered the city.

He stood and started to walk, pretending to have not heard the old scholar.

"It _is_ you, young man! Come! I must insist you visit and spend the night. You've been gone far too long and we must catch up!" The scholar grabbed Altair's arm firmly and guided him to his small home on the square. "Dearest! Look who I found entering the city!"

"Oh!" the wife came forward, properly covered for Muslim edicts, but clearly having just been cooking. "Oh! Our hero! Come, come, I've just set out our dinner! I've enough for one more!"

Altair's stomach betrayed him after such a long ride from Masyaf with only trail food and he resolved that he would not enter the Holy City through the Lion's Gate ever again. He was not _supposed_ to be recognized.

The wife had them both seated and was soon putting plates of food and doing everything shy of stuffing them demurely down Altair's throat. ("You're far too thin for a hero.")

The scholar just laughed. "My wife only ever appreciates meat on bones where there isn't supposed to be," he chuckled, patting his plump, though not fat, stomach.

Altair brushed it all aside and politely asked, "How are your sons?"

The smiles cracked a little, but then shined again at full force. "My youngest, unfortunately, is no longer in Jerusalem. He now works in Bethlehem, south of here. He likely won't be back here, but then, he was in a spot of trouble."

Altair didn't react.

The wife shook her head. "It was not his fault. He was helping you, young man. You saved my husband's life and our son simply returned the favor. He should not be blamed for not knowing the situation fully. Besides, any of us would have done the same thing, even if we _did_ know the situation fully."

The scholar took her hand and squeezed it. "Yes," he said sadly. "It seems that slaver was the one who plucked my brother from the mines and sent him off to heaven only knows where. All we know is that he died on route and is buried at the roadside like some common dog. Even the cursed infidels don't treat their dead like that."

Altair said nothing for a long time. He had believed that he had been the one to kill this scholar's brother. Had believed it for months now. It was a regret he bore with Adha and Kadar. Only to now realize that the helpless man he'd killed down in the mines was not the man's brother. Yet the heavy guilt did not disappear, because that man was still _someone_ 's family. The only difference now was that Altair had no face to attach to the bereaved. If anything, that almost made it _worse_.

But Altair showed none of what he was feeling. Instead he quietly said, "I am no hero."

"Nonsense!" the scholar clapped Altair's back. "You may have done so for your own reasons, but you removed the man who killed my brother."

"Beloved, don't let the other scholars hear you say that."

"Don't worry dearest, as we are not the ones who did the deed, we have no worry. And as long as we tell no one, this young man who has done so much for us is safe."

"Your other sons?" Altair tried to shift the subject.

"Fines for stupidity, the patrol say," the scholar replied. "Nothing they can't afford. Thankfully this was before this Majd Addin became regent. I don't know what the wise Salah ad-Din was thinking making him regent. He keeps the city petrified of even walking wrong."

"Beloved! You never know if the guard are listening!"

The scholar scoffed. "Let them try to put me on trial! I am a learned man! I'll talk circles around them!"

"I'd advise against purposefully angering him," Altair replied quietly. "He sounds a madman, and they can never be truly reasoned with."

"Yes, beloved! Listen to our young hero."

Altair had had enough.

"I thank you for your hospitality, but I really must be going." He stood quickly and replaced his blades. "I wish you and your family well." He paused at the door. "Safety and peace."

Husband and wife smiled warmly. "An odd offering, but a good one. Safety and peace upon you as well, young man."

Altair stuck to the shadowed alleys and unlit rooftops until he finally reached the Bureau, glad to finally put memories of the man in the mine away.

Or so he hoped.

Given the late hour, most of the residents of the Bureau were asleep, save a few journeymen intent on a game of chess. Malik was at the counter, a compass in hand as he was measuring distances on a map of Jerusalem that lay before him. Looking around the Bureau with a glance, Altair could see that what was once a weaver's shop was now a cartographer's.

Fitting, with Malik's skill with a brush.

With a silent, deep breath, Altair stepped forward. "Safety and peace, Malik," he said with quiet respect.

"Were that the city was possessed of either," Malik replied tiredly. "Why do you trouble me tonight?"

Altair walked up to the counter, ignoring the journeymen's prying ears at the game board. "Al Mualim has marked Majd Addin for death. What can you tell me about him?"

Malik kept studying his map. "Salah ad-Din's absence has left the city without a proper leader and Majd Addin has appointed himself to play the part." Malik glanced up with an ironic glare, referencing the arrogance of such an act and comparing it with Altair's own arrogance in one quirked lip and raised eyebrow. "Fear and intimidation get him what he wants. He has no true claim to the position." Another quirk of the lip and Altair ignored the comparison.

"That ends today," he replied calmly. He'd earned Malik's ire and as much as Altair did not like it, the comparison was accurate.

Malik straightened, irony and insult replaced with dislike. "You speak too readily," he said harshly. "This is not some slaver we're discussing here. He rules Jerusalem and is well protected because of it. I suggest you plan your attack carefully. Get to know your prey." _Like you didn't last time_ , hung loudly in the air.

Altair refused to bristle. Malik had a point. This would require much planning and preparation; much as he had done with William and attempted to do with Nuquod. He was not the brash, impatient novice he'd been before and he would take Malik's words to heart and do so. Perhaps that could be the Christian olive branch that he could extend. Something to repair the damaged friendship.

So he replied, "With your help, I will. Where would you have me begin my search?"

Malik's face slackened and his eyebrows rose for the briefest of instances. "What's this? You're actually... _asking_ for my assistance instead of demanding it. I'm impressed."

Despite Altair's attempts to control patience, "Be out with it," still managed to slip out.

"As you wish," Malik replied with a scowl. "Here's where I would look: first, to the southwest near a mosque. After that, head south of here. There are two locations that might interest you. The southern most church is one, the other is in the streets, near a synagogue."

Altair bowed his head. "Thank you for your help, _dai_."

"Don't _foul_ this, Altair," Malik warned and picked up his compass again.

Nodding, Altair went to the courtyard, intent on sleeping under the stars when Malik called out.

"Altair."

The demoted assassin turned. Malik stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, glancing at the journeymen at the chessboard. "Never mind."

"As you wish."

Between the long ride, meeting the scholar, the revelation that Altair hadn't really killed his brother, trying to be polite and deferential to Malik's position as a way to regain friendship, well, Altair did not sleep well. Thoughts swirled in his mind like a thick soup. Something was troubling him, but he could not see what. So, with a sigh, he rose before the sun and left. Wandering around the district would hopefully clear his head or make clear what it was he needed to see.

He stayed to the rooftops, observing as people started to rise for the day. He avoided any guards without even thinking about it, particularly since the patrols were exhausted from a long night of watch. As the sun continued to rise, more and more people started to fill the streets, even as the heat started to bear down heavily on them.

The Jewish district did not have any truly tall buildings. There was only one minaret and Altair climbed it to study the streets below him, watching the flow of people. It was strange. Altair knew Jerusalem. Every nook and cranny, every sky garden, haystack, bench, well, and courtyard. It had been his playground for his time under Baasir. But as he knew the layout and buildings, he also knew the people. Being the Holy City for the three major religions tended to attract a sort of people. The citizens and the merchants and the nobles, they all understood their city and respected it. There was pride, even here in the Jewish, and as such, poorest district of the city. People were still people, but the city itself had a personality. With three religions all having their own district, the city had more tolerance than others like Damascus or Acre. One could easily see a rabbi, priest, and sheik sitting together in friendly, if stiff, debate.

Looking at Jerusalem now, Altair wondered where all of that had gone.

The people hurried from one location to another with fear in their steps. Tension lay with even more weight than the heat on every pair of shoulders. Guards were given a wide berth and observed nervously as people went about their business.

Curious and concerned, Altair climbed back down to the streets and let the flow of the crowds carry him around the district. Bits of conversation, hushed whispers, all started to give Altair an idea of what had happened to Jerusalem and it was not a pretty picture.

The people were petrified. Warnings to do absolutely nothing wrong were harshly said between family and friends. Talal had made people fear disappearances, but it seemed Majd Addin ensured the people knew _why_ citizens disappeared. Yet no one would dare speak of what was going on plainly. Not with so many guards patrolling the area.

So Altair started looking for heralds and town criers, to see if any of them would know what was going on. Perhaps find one who might be close to Majd so that Altair could properly interrogate him.

Many heralds were making announcements of trials, sentencing and where to find the execution. Altair was appalled at the sheer number he overheard as he wandered through the late morning sun. Jerusalem had never had such crimes. Every city had thefts and murders, common whoring and unpleasantness, but every listing Altair heard bore different names, different crimes, and all bore the sentence of execution. Just how strict was Majd being with Jerusalem? This was unheard of! Oppressive! The people could do nothing right if the numbers were correct.

Truly, it was no wonder people were leaving Jerusalem. It sounded like the only way to stay alive.

One town crier caught Altair's attention as he went through another square.

"We all hold darkness in our hearts. Each day is a struggle to remain strong in our faith, but we are only human. We might falter; we might fail. Majd Addin is here to see that even when this happens, we are returned to a proper course. Confess to him, and he will show mercy. But, should you try to run, to hide, you will be found and made to pay!"

Altair's lips thinned. Just what sort of rhetoric was this?

"There is nothing more insidious than one who turns his back on the law, for the law was given to us by God, glorious and exalted is He. To defy it is to disrespect Him, and there is no greater evil than this! Majd Addin understands! He works to cast out the wicked among us, that we may live righteous lives!"

Altair could not be one to talk of the law, given that he pickpocketed and murdered people. But the laws were there for sound reasons and the citizens did need to obey. But such words did not show that there were _levels_ of crimes. Petty and major. And that for many, there were _reasons_ behind their misdeeds, be it poverty, drunkenness, or pure cruelty.

"Watch carefully those around you. Those you think you know so well, for none of us is above temptation. Should they act contrary to the law, no matter how minor it seems, they must be reported. A small crime today leads to larger ones tomorrow. Majd Addin will _help_ , only come forward so that he might know their names. There is no harm in naming them, those among you who defy the law. We are nothing without our faith, without its rules and its direction. To defy it is to defy the one who leads us. Such behavior cannot be allowed."

And now people were to turn traitor to their own for even the smallest of sins? For such extreme and harsh punishment as constant execution? There was no question why Al Mualim wished this man dead. Altair could only wonder what this man's role with the Templars was.

He stayed in the square, wandering from merchant to merchant until the herald stepped down, likely for his midday meal. Altair was the herald's white shadow, closing in through the crowds. Evidently, the man would not eat in the square he was calling to, which was fine for Altair. Fewer witnesses who would recognize the town crier.

A small, but long archway to another square was in shadows and devoid of any other people. Already upon the herald, Altair kicked the back of the knees, sending the man down. From there Altair grabbed his hair and yanked him to the left, further off balance, and drove his face into the wall before sending his foot up into the herald's ribs.

"Enough! I still breath," the man coughed. "So you must desire more than just my life. What is it?"

"You know Majd Addin well?" Altair demanded.

"Better than most."

Good.

"He seems a bit too righteous. Is the law really so important to him?" Because Altair truly doubted that.

"What do you think?" the herald retorted.

"I think he hides something, and I think you'll tell me what it is," he growled with peril in store if the man did not answer.

"It's a veil, all of it," he hastened. "Men like me, we are meant to scare, fill the people with fear. The ones he kills, not criminals, but, dangerous all the same."

That made no sense.

"Dangerous to who?"

"His plans. Their plans."

Altair _glared_. The man _cowered_.

"Yes, he speaks of others, those he works with, works for perhaps, I am uncertain. They need the city, though controlling it is important to them."

The Templars. It could be no one else.

"Why?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself," the herald spat. "Attend one of his executions, it's when he's most talkative," a grim smile, "addressing the crowd - hands covered with blood."

"Then we are done."

The hidden blade buried itself deep into the man's heart, providing an instant death.

Altair exited to the square the herald was heading for and hugged the walls until he was down a few alleys and side streets and made his way further south. A small stand was selling summer fruits and Altair bought some to have as his midday meal. He sat in a shadowed corner, listening to the crowds and pondering what he had learned.

Majd Addin was a bloodthirsty man and did not hide the fact that he was a Templar, or rather, that he worked with others who were above him. He had men preach adherence to the law to an extent Altair had never seen. Many understood a hungry child stealing bread to eat, even if the child was still punished. This severity was unprecedented, in all the history that Altair had studied. Neither the Bible, the Torah, or the Quoran spoke of such practices for even the most minor of offenses. The regent seemed to be drunk on power and was abusing it. Drawing attention to himself. Surely the Templars, who seemed to ever work in secrecy, would not allow this? Yet they let such a man come to power and had done nothing.

Templars truly were a horrible group.

Once Altair finished his fruit, he walked around the streets once more, just trying to adjust to a feel of such a frightened Jerusalem.

Besides, if Majd Addin was most talkative at an execution, Altair had better find one.

The problem, it seemed, wasn't in _finding_ an execution, but seeing _which one_ the regent was at. Wandering just through the Muslim and Jewish districts showed over twenty different executions going on over just that afternoon.

This was _madness_!

But Altair still pounded the streets; looking for any clues for what execution the sick Majd Addin would be attending.

It wasn't until he was in the Jewish district again that he heard something interesting.

"Did you see the order?" a carpenter was hissing to another. "He wants us to prepare the stage for another execution. Today!"

The other carpenter groaned. "Where?"

"It's on the western edge of Solomon's Temple; I was on my way just now."

"So much death..." The other carpenter rubbed his beard. "It seems he can't hold his executions at the Dome of the Rock so he'll do it in its shadow instead."

"Were it that our true leader might return and bring a measure of justice to this city," the first carpenter sighed.

The other nodded. "Yes, and not this mockery Majd Addin parades before us."

"How? How does something like this happen?"

"Everyone appointed in Salah ad-Din's stead has met with an untimely end, and now the position falls to him. He, who was once nothing more than the Emir's scribe..." The other carpenter shook his head.

"How convenient," the first agreed. "It would not surprise me to learn he was behind these... accidents."

"Shh, if the guards hear us, we'll be taken for treason and executed on the very platform we have to repair!"

"That sounds like a good charge," a guard replied, appearing from behind the crates. Another pair of guards walked forward from around the corner and a guard that had been by the wall under Altair's perch closed in as well.

"Please!" the first carpenter begged. "We mean no harm! We merely go to build a stage!"

Altair needed no further incentive. These men, unknowingly, had provided him information, and he would repay them.

He leapt down into the circle of guards, two knives flashing from his hand and burying into the eye of one guard and the neck of another. From under his hood, Altair gave a feral smile and took off down the streets through the gap the two dead guards created.

"You cannot run forever!"

"I will catch you!"

And other Arabic curses chased after him with the remaining guards. The distraction was enough for both carpenters to run as the guards tried to clamber up the ladder Altair was climbing.

Once on the roof, Altair looked down and smiled again, the sun hiding his face in shadows. Just as the guards were all on the ladder and reaching the top, Altair pushed the ladder with his foot, leaving it off balance and falling back down to the ground as he dashed away on rooftops and dropping into a deserted alley.

A few more quick turns and Altair settled himself easily onto a bench, turning to someone else sitting there and starting up quiet conversation as he helped her with an impatient child.

The child was on his lap, poking curiously at his face while the mother was smiling and giggling behind her traditional _hijab_ , telling stories of her children when the guards went rushing by, not seeing anything out of place.

Altair stayed with the mother and child for another hour, escorting her back to her house with light conversation before he decided to head back for the Bureau.

He had much to think on.

Malik was waiting for him when he entered the Bureau, his face carefully neutral. He and Altair looked at each other for a long time. The demoted assassin was wary, Malik was not one to wait when he had biting rhetoric, but his current reticence made Altair nervous, he did not know what to expect. When a journeyman entered the courtyard, the moment was lost, and Malik snubbed the assassin and reentered the Bureau's back room. Altair and the journeyman followed. There were many inside, relaxing from a long hot day, and most were gathered around the chessboard.

As Altair entered a large cry came from the crowd, one of the apprentices cursing as he got up from the board and making his way out, apparently having lost. Money was changing hands, there appeared to be bets going on during the game.

"Ah, Altair!" a voice said. The demoted assassin turned, seeing Farasat, the pickpocket teacher, at the board. "I've not played against you for a long time! Come, come, join me in a game and we'll see if Baasir managed to do anything to help you."

Everyone unanimously agreed, all but dragging him to the board. He could see Malik scowling and looking to his maps, compass flicking about the parchment as he measured distances. Frowning, Altair shook his head slightly and turned away, unable to talk to the _dai_ now.

"Tell me," Farasat asked, "Were you ever able to beat the old man?"

"No," Altair answered as the two set up the board. Altair was white, and he began with the king's pawn, pushing it forward two spaces.

Farasat answered with his queen's pawn, and after a half dozen moves the game slowed as the two debated their strategies. Everyone around them were placing bets and naming odds and trading money. Altair was distracted by the noise; his games with Baasir had been in the quiet of night with nothing to distract him. The memories they dragged up made him frown as his knight took a pawn. Farasat answering with his bishop blocking a future move. Altair took his rook and placed it in preparation for a strike.

"I don't think there was anyone who could beat Baasir," Farasat said, contemplating his next move. "Except perhaps the Master himself. There are few people indeed who could see so many moves ahead as he. It made him an excellent teacher."

"A pity he's dead, then," Malik muttered from across the room. Altair heard it even if no one else did, and he almost grabbed the wrong piece before correcting himself.

His queen moved out, now covered by his rook. "Check," he said softly, and the crowd cooed at the unexpected move.

"I see you are as bold and aggressive as ever," Farasat said, nodding. "But have you learned to look ahead, as Bassir always taught us? Check," he said, putting a knight in front of the queen, blocking it and also putting Altair in danger. He could not take it without sacrificing his queen. Altair studied the board.

He glanced at Malik. "We must all look forward," he said. "It is a key skill for any assassin. Aggression is necessary to survive, and boldness surprises opponents, making the strike easier." He moved a pawn, taunting Farasat's knight as he eyed the other pieces on the board. If the pickpocket teacher moved the way he wanted to in the next move...

"Your words are true," the older journeyman said, "But imagine combining your boldness with the wisdom of looking forward. This creates an unbeatable opponent, called cunning." He moved his pawn, exactly as Altair wanted, and the next four moves went swiftly.

"Checkmate," Altair said, placing his rook.

"Bold, indeed," Farasat said, smiling in approval. "I wonder how it would fair against the _dai_."

That was all the prompting the apprentices needed, wide-eyed teenagers immediately turning to Malik and begging and cajoling him to play the game. The one armed man glared them all away, but his gaze locked onto Altair, and the two stared at each other. The demoted assassin held the gaze, saying nothing, doing nothing. He could goad Malik into it if he wanted to, but he wanted this to be his former friend's decision. Malik seemed to sense this and frowned before getting up. The half dozen men surrounding the board quickly doubled in size as word spread that the _dai_ and Altair were having a match, bets and odds and whispers filling the room with noise.

Altair was still white. This time he opened with the queen's knight, pushing it forward over the pawns.

Malik studied the board before pulling out his king's pawn, moving it two spaces in a classic opener.

"I did not know you played," the Bureau chief said slowly, eyeing Altair as much as the board.

"Baasir made a point of everyone learning the game," Altair answered, studying Malik's moves. He was a cautious player, slow to move and careful to keep all his pieces covered. "He said it was an exercise of the mind. None could beat him."

"So I've heard," Malik offered, pushing a rook's pawn onto the board. "His name is held in high esteem here."

"As it should be," Altair said, "His patience was like no other. Even the most inept of students never saw his ire." He moved one of his bishops.

"Referring to yourself so quickly?" Malik sniped. He countered with a knight, placing it in a very strategic square, blocking several of Altair's ideas.

"No," the demoted assassin said, studying the board. "Even as he nurtured the inept, he found ways to challenge the gifted. There were none he could not teach, could not improve. He was an asset to all."

"And to think you are responsible for his death," Malik said casually. "I wonder how that makes the others feel."

Everyone froze at the words, collectively taking a breath as heavy tension settled around the entire board. Eyes either locked onto Altair and Malik or quickly sought purchase on something else - anything else. It was still Altair's move. He glared at Malik, at the board. "Thoughts of others do not concern me," he said, his voice quiet and low and dangerous. He would not taint Baasir's memory with a fight. Not over chess. He would _not_. He grabbed his queen and shoved it across the board, boldly taking a rook and splitting many of Malik's defenses. "Check."

Malik glared at Altair just as heavily as he did. "Tell me then," he asked, "Why is it that everyone here still favors you, after everything you've done? How can they still admire a man who, by his own admission, cares nothing for them?" A knight, _the_ knight that had been so strategically placed before now moved across the board; taking Altair's queen and robbing him of his best piece.

"Perhaps it is through actions that one forms an opinion of another," Altair said, taking a rook and aggressively capturing the knight that had just stolen his queen. "Check," he said again.

"Truly?" Malik asked, his tone almost light. "The tell me, what actions should I use to judge my opinion of you?" A bishop slid diagonally across the board, taking Altair's rook. "The death of my brother? Your cowardly retreat to Masyaf? The death of Baasir? Or perhaps your own unfettered arrogance. Tell me, Altair, how should I judge you?"

Pressure was building in Altair's head, the eyes of the crowd heavy on his body and his muscles taught with tension. The room seemed closed in, stuffy, the air thick and hard to breath. Bloodlust, all too familiar to Altair, filled his mouth and he licked his lips, fighting back the urge. "This is Baasir's game," Altair said, his voice a low, tight growl. "This is his legacy as much as any who have studied under him are. I will not sully this game by trading barbed words and veiled hatred." He grabbed his king and handed it to Malik, resigning from the game. "That is what you want, is it not?" he demanded, getting up from the board. "Take it and feel your precious satisfaction."

He stiffly walked out of the thick atmosphere, climbing the fountain in the courtyard and hoisting himself up to the roof. He paced about, trying to collect himself, and settled for running across the rooftops, following every old track Baasir had ever set up. Then he ran them again. And again. And again. It was well past midnight when, finally exhausted, he fell back into the courtyard. Everything was quiet, still, and Altair did not even bother to go inside, instead grabbing the pillows of the courtyard and laying back, waiting for the sweat to dry and the breathing to slow down and the heart to stop hurting. He knew he was watched, and so he rolled over, putting his back to the inner room, determined to reveal nothing.

Altair was unaware that in doing so he revealed everything.

The next morning he was up well before dawn and stomping about the streets of the Jewish quarter. The air was already warm, and Altair glared at the rising sun for its oppressive heat. His thoughts were more scattered than he wanted, and he rubbed his forehead of its heat and struggled to gain control of himself. It was midmorning before he felt anything resembling better, and could afford to open his ears for his investigation.

Many seemed to believe that Majd Addin was appointed by Salah ad-Din. Some suspected treachery, like the carpenters he'd overheard yesterday, but they were far and few between - or at least few that would dare voice these thoughts out loud. He did learn that most of the executions were in the Jewish quarter, by luck or design he had yet to determine, and it gave him a most likely location for Majd Addin's arrival. If he would play the crowd, as the crier had said, it would likely be in this district.

"You again, grand master?"

Altair turned as he entered a square. It was the apprentice he had helped before, the attempting artist... Halim, he remembered.

"Safety and peace, I'm so glad to see you."

"You did not know I was here?" he asked.

"No, I've spent the last three nights by the Dome of the Rock, practicing my sketches."

He had not witnessed the fight then. That relieved Altair, he did not wish to have someone press him into talking about it. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he asked, "How has the work been coming?"

Halim beamed, his smile evident under the cloth draped over his face. "The _dai_ says my eye for perspective and proportions have improved greatly. More tasks have been placed upon me, and..." his voice trailed off, his bright countenance shrinking. "In these trouble times they ask me to prove myself..." he said, looking down, "but I feel so inadequate when I compare myself to you."

"Stop that right now," Altair said, his voice hoarse with vehemence. Young Halim blinked, surprised.

"Stop what?"

"Do not compare yourself with me. There _is_ no comparison. How old are you?"

"Sixteen, but-"

"I have almost a decade of experience on you," Altair said in clipped tones. "How can you compare yourself to me when you are an apprentice and I a mas-a senior journeyman?" He grit the rank out with bitter teeth. "Whatever you hold my expertise to be you cannot hope to compare yourself to me simply because of the well of experience that you do not have. Continually doing so will only serve to fuel feelings of inadequacy - as you've just admitted - and reduce the feats you think yourself capable. That can only hurt an assassin. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes," the apprentice said, wide eyed and more than a little startled with Altair's outburst. The demoted assassin ground his teeth, hating how Jerusalem always seemed to bring the worst out of him these days. He took a deep, silent breath, a hot exhale leaving his lips as he rearranged his thoughts to the matter at hand.

"How are you being asked to prove yourself?"

"...I must kill two of Majd Addin's men without a fight. Could you show me the way? I would be forever grateful," he caught himself, sensing Altair's frustration, and quickly added, "and share a very interesting story with you."

Altair appraised the boy. Sixteen? This was likely his test for promotion to a journeyman. The _dai_ would not know of sneaking into the barbican, or if he did had chosen something else as was his prerogative. The thought of Malik pressed a frown on his face. "Have you killed before today?"

"Not silently," Halim said. "I've killed in a fight before."

The assassin nodded. "How are your pickpocket skills?"

The question surprised Halim, the apprentice blinking before answering. "Master Farasat says I'm very skilled, and he does not give out praise easily."

"Can you plant information on a man?"

"... Yes."

"Easily?"

"Yes," Halim said, at last with confidence.

"Good, come with me," Altair said. Walking down an alley, he reached into his pack and pulled out a bit of parchment and charcoal, quickly marking it up with a few symbols, both Latin and Arabic, and gave it to the apprentice. He scanned the crowd, looking for a target that might be difficult for the boy. "Him," he said finally, pointing out a thug rubbing his hands together as he walked down the street. "Place this on him without his notice."

Halim nodded, still confused as to how pickpocketing related to assassination, but he did as he was told and merged into the street. Altair followed, gauging the boy's ability. Farasat had been wise in his praise, the boy was nearly invisible in the crowd, nobody touched him, and he did not need to gently push anyone out of the way. He walked by the thug as smoothly as water lapped the harbors of Acre, and none took notice of him. Altair nodded in approval, sneaking up to the thug himself and filching the parchment that had been planted on him, as well as a few throwing knives for good measure. The two regrouped in front of a synagogue.

"To assassinate a target silently is no different from planting a document on a target," Altair explained, giving the boy the knives. "Instead of delivering parchment or coin, one delivers a knife. Do you know where to strike?"

Halim nodded, if uncertainly. "I often have trouble with the angle, Master," he said. "I am tall for my age and have trouble angling a hidden blade."

"Which is why you will use these," Altair said, pointing to the knives. Quickly he spun Halim around, taking the pommel of one of his own throwing knives and pressing it into the apprentice's back. "There," he said, "between these two ribs is the best place to strike. If you cannot angle it, instead twist the blade like this." He demonstrated with the pommel of his knife. "It will do more damage and ensure the death."

"I would never have thought of that," the apprentice said, turning around. "Should I grab the target around the neck as you have?"

"Not always," Altair explained. "It is necessary with a hidden blade, but not for knives, because you can leave them in their backs. If you are unlucky with the armor, it will become necessary."

Halim nodded, his eyes bright with anticipation. "Is there more?"

"Yes, but not now," Altair said. He doubted much more could stay in the boy's head as it filled with excitement. "Do your task. I will trail behind you and create a diversion if there is trouble."

"Yes, Master."

The two set off, Altair wary of the city patrols, ever vigilant and quick to arrest any who would break some kind of law. Halim tried to imitate it, but he was too focused on looking for his targets. He touched the assassin's arm twenty minutes later before drifting off, seemingly aimless, after one guard who was patrolling a square. Altair closed his eyes and called on his eagle, opening up his mind to its presence and watching everything in hyper deta _il this is cool how does he do i_ t, looking for any sign of trouble as Halim silently walked up behind his target and neatly stabbed the man in the back, twisting the knife and leaving without even breaking stride. For an amateur it was an excellent strike, likely more luck than skill.

For the next hour the two walked silently, searching for the boy's next target. Altair kept his eagle-like vision open, observing everything and everyone; his ears open to all. He learned nothing he had not discovered already.

The second target walked around a corner and almost into the pair. Altair's quick reflexes pulled Halim out from bumping into the man - one did not need an excuse to be arrested, and the guard glared at them before walking on.

"He has seen you," Altair whispered. "Be wary, be careful."

"Yes," the boy said. He detached from the assassin and silently navigated the crowds with the skill Farasat had seen. Altair watched clinically, trailing after them. Halim approached silently, and was quick to stab the man. His knife seemed caught in armor, however, and Altair could see the boy struggling to twist the knife. The demoted assassin quickened his pace, "accidentally" bumping into the apprentice and giving him the momentum necessary to finish the strike. Apologizing for show, Altair helped Halim up from his stumble and asked if he was alright, striking up conversation as they rounded a corner and into a main thoroughfare. The boy was tense.

"Relax," he said, "Draw no attention to yourself."

"I will," the apprentice said, fighting with himself. "I will."

It was almost noon now, and the two rested in the shade of the southern city wall, drinking from their water-skins.

"You are the best the clan has ever seen." Halim said, awe in his voice. "I was so worried about the assignment..."

"Worry does one little good when an assignment is at hand," Altair said, quoting Baasir. "Worry makes a brother careful in his planning, but one must have utter confidence when the time for the task arrives."

"Wise words indeed," Halim said before straightening. "Here is my story, Master: I was cleaning the Temple steps. I overheard two scholars praising how easy it was for them to pass the soldiers guarding the entrance of the execution plaza. If you time your entry properly, they could provide a nice distraction for the guards, but I am sure that with your wisdom, you knew that already."

Altair nodded, absorbing the information slowly. He could use that in his assault, perhaps. He knew the west wall plaza; he wondered how the guards would be placed. That would be his next goal.

"I must return to the Dome of the Rock," Halim said, taking one last sip from his water-skin. "They will miss me if I am gone for too long, an artist's apprentice that I am."

Altair nodded. "Finish your sketches. Let me know which scholars are the ones who like watching the executions. Befriend them, if you can; I may need that later."

"Yes, Master."

The demoted assassin watched as Halim merged into the crowds with his skill. He would be a gifted silent assassin, he decided, watching the boy move through the crowds; making journeyman at sixteen in itself was testament to his skill, and his lack of knowledge of how skillful he was kept him humble - to his benefit. Altair and his constant praise from Baasir and others had left him confident - as had his repeated successes as he received more dangerous missions. Frowning, he realized that he had never known true, catastrophic failure, not until Solomon's Temple. Did he have to fall so far to learn his lesson?

He remembered how he acted.

Yes, yes he had.

Pushing himself off the southern wall, he moved in the same direction of Halim, hoping to get to the west wall plaza and see if an execution was being held. He needed to see guard placement, sketch the grounds, get a sense of the rooflines and the platform itself. There were always nooks and alcoves one forgot when being away from a city for extended periods of time, and Altair wanted to relearn it all.

A shriek caught his ear.

He turned, ducking behind a pile of crates, and watched as a woman dashed down the street, three guards following her. The men were faster than her; one grabbed her shoulder so violently she spun around, landing on her back. Struggling to get up, it became obvious that the shoulder of her smock had been ripped, exposing skin. Her _hijab_ had long disappeared, and her hair was askew. "You are under arrest, whore!" the guard said in Turkish, struggling to lift the woman to her feet. The other two circled around, weary of catching her if she broke free.

"I'm not!" she cried out.

"You looked me in the eye," the guard said, "I know solicitation when I see it!"

"Liar! Let me go!"

"Where is your _hijab_ , if not with your latest lover?"

"It's on the ground where you threw it! Rape! Rape! Somebody help me!"

Altair stepped forward. "Is there a problem here?" he asked softly, his hands clasped in front of him and posing as a scholar.

"This woman is a whore and a lawbreaker," the guard said, not even looking at the assassin. The other two still stood ready.

"I am a sheikh," Altair said quietly, identifying himself as one who had memorized the entire Quoran, "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

A second guard stepped in front of the struggling woman and her captive. "You are trying to interfere with us as we uphold the law?" he demanded. "You shall be under arrest, too!"

Altair blinked innocently at the man, trying to maintain his character. "An offer of help is to be spat upon? This is shameful."

"More shameful that you keep us from our work, sheikh," the guard spat. "Come with us. We'll see if Majd Addin has words for you."

Sighing, unable to resolve this without drawing attention to himself, Altair stabbed the man in the gut with his hidden blade, the weapon piercing deep enough to scrape along the man's spinal column before he yanked it out. The dying man stumbled, grunting, and Altair walked around to the reticent third guard, still eyeing the first with the woman as her struggles disrobed her even further. He grabbed the man by the neck, spinning him around and plunging his blade into the man's chest, between two ribs and through a lung and other soft tissue. He coughed up blood, the red liquid dribbling out his mouth and down his neck. Altair shoved him aside to die in the dirt.

Drawing his sword, he grabbed the wrist of the first guard, yanking it off the woman. The demoted assassin gave one piercing gaze to the woman. "Run," he said, and she did not need to be told twice, sprinting away.

"Infidel! Lawbreaker!" the Turkish guard spat. "You will die!"

Altair let the man twist out of his grip, swinging his sword to keep the city guard on his toes. "Salah ad-Din is many things," he said softly, marching towards the guard and giving another precise thrust, preventing the man from drawing his weapon, "But one of his edicts is tolerance: to all men, races, religion, creeds, and beliefs. I wonder if he would tolerate you."

"This is by his orders," the guard spat. "Majd Addin speaks for Salah ad-Din. You are an idiot for not knowing this, 'sheikh.' " At last he drew his sword, and Altair easily parried the clumsy attack, pushing the guard back even further, until the man's back was to a wall. "Even if you kill me, the work will still be done."

" _My_ work has not even started," Altair whispered, stepping around a strike and impaling the man on his sword. Screams filled the streets, the fight had drawn quite a crowd and witnessing the murder had snapped them out of their reverie, sending them running and shrieking for guards and help and begging that Altair leave them alone.

"There he is!"

Altair saw the guard patrol and cursed, bolting down a street and hopping onto a pile of baskets, up a lantern beam, and onto a closed balcony, hoisting himself up. Some guards threw rocks at him while others tried to follow in pursuit. Altair ignored it, favoring the climb up to the roofline. One rock struck the back of his head just as he feet cleared the building, and he stumbled forward, pain intense and his vision momentarily blinded. He allowed himself to fall and roll - it wasted precious time but he needed the initial wave of pain to pass before he could run. When he could see, he ran flat out across the roofs, hearing pursuit hot on his tails, before leaping up two levels and then jumping over a narrow alley. Altair darted across one thin wooden beam, the structure bobbing under his weight, before he spotted a collection of birds roosting on the corner of a building. They startled, flying away as he approached, but he happily leapt off the corner, falling three stories and down into a cart of hay. He buried himself deep into the sweet smelling straw, confident he had lost his pursuers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Revelations! We've been playing it obsessively, we openly admit it, and we just love it. The Sophia memories, the hidden tombs, Altair, we are a very happy set of twins. Will Malik show up? We hope so, though we haven't seen all the key sequences yet.
> 
> Anyway, for this chapter, there's no one thing to comment on, just that we like it overall. We love any and all interaction with Malik, and poor Altair has no idea what the dai wants to ask him in private. Halim also made an appearance, and there's something about him that we like, he's so earnest and sincere and humble. He'd make a good character for an anime, maybe that's why we favor him. :D Farasat also made a good show - we weren't foreshadowing the next chapter with his reference to cunning, nope, not at all. :D
> 
> Anyway, we had a great Thanksgiving and we hope any American readers out there did too.
> 
> Next chapter, er, is a bloodbath. You have been warned.


	15. Deeath of a Regeant

It was late afternoon when he finally deemed it safe to leave the hay, and as he patted himself down of straw he moaned that he had not had time to go to the west wall plaza. It would be evening, and Malik likely wanted to keep a tight leash on him. Sighing, he made his way to the Bureau.

As he expected, Malik was waiting for him. The two once more stared at each other, last night's argument pulsing unspoken between them, and the _dai_ finally turned away, stalking back into the Bureau. Altair stayed outside, the two silently agreeing it was for the best. He spent what little light was left beginning the outlines for his report - too early to do so but it kept the apprentices and journeymen that entered as the day ended from trying to strike up conversation.

The next morning was as hot as the last, and Altair left the Bureau to once more scan the Jewish quarter. It was a short walk from the Bureau to the plaza, and the sun was just cresting the eastern wall when the demoted assassin exited a narrow street and into the plaza. Shade still enveloped everything, and Altair simply took a moment to look.

He had exited Solomon's Temple from this wall; he could still see the cracks in the wall, the protruding root system, though his exit seemed to have collapsed on itself. He wondered, not for the first time, if Kadar's body was rotting in there. There was no way to go back and check, the entrance to the temple was no doubt heavily guarded by now, and whatever his personal desire the risk made the attempt too dangerous. Was the miner there, too?

The assassin shook his head; such thoughts would do him no good.

Instead, Altair pulled out his parchment and charcoal, sketching out the wide expanse. The carpenters he had saved before were working on the stage, shoring up its poles and replacing weak boards. Altair moved to another corner and started again, and then again when he climbed to the roofs. He wanted every angle he could think of, to ascertain where the archers and guards would most likely be. If Majd Addin was on the stage, playing to the crowd, then in some respects he was an easy target - particularly for a throwing knife. But archers had sharp eyes, and the effect would be better if he were but a blade in the crowd, as "shocked" as everyone else when the self-proclaimed regent met an untimely end.

As midmorning approached Altair saw several city guards climb up to the roofs, a sign for him to get going. A boot nudged him in the shoulder, and he turned to see another guard had appeared behind him.

"You have no business here," the guard said.

Altair thought quickly, and replied, "Is there no execution today? I enjoy watching them but cannot always see on the ground."

The bearded guard made a noise of disgust. "Trials won't be until noon, now get out."

Altair nodded, keeping his head down, and took the ladder right next to him down to the streets. He would be back later, when all the guards were on the roofs and he could mark their positions. Lowering himself to the ground, he milled about, still feeling the eyes of the archer. The plaza was slowly filling with people, all waiting for the show. Altair stayed for an hour or so before leaving. He would come back later. Instead, he focused on the small alleys and narrow streets around the plaza, keeping his ears open for the guards and patrols, seeing if he could spot who was assigned to guard the upcoming execution.

That was why he saw one city guard depart from his patrol, walking down an alley away from the plaza and to a main street. He looked about, but Altair was invisible in the crowd, and ducked down another alley. The assassin followed and watched as the guard stopped a worker. They seemed to know each other.

"Ah, they sent word you wish to speak to me," the worker said.

The city guard nodded, handing over a rolled parchment to him. "Majd Addin intends another execution tomorrow. We must ensure all goes well."

The worker nodded. "It is my duty to serve." Altair eyed the two and realized they were related; the guard could have passed as the twin of the worker. Family would explain why the two would even associate with each other while the guard was on duty.

"Bring the document I've given you to the master, this way he'll know where my men are at all times and be quick about it. We can ill afford any delays."

"There will be none, you have my word," the worker said. He looked past the guard for a moment, and Altair sat on a bench, looking for the world that he was fighting the heat. The worker asked in a lower, softer voice: "Is there anything else?"

The guard looked left and right, his eyes lingering on Altair but ultimately ignoring him. He leaned forward, his voice even softer. Altair could barely hear him. "We've reason to believe they've infiltrated the city." Altair's mind flared in anger. He'd made too much a scene yesterday, and the day previous. They knew the assassins were in the city. He would have to be _most_ careful, now. "Majd Addin fears for his safety," the guard continued, "Truth be told I don't blame him. A man in his position has many enemies."

The two shared a shudder, before they leaned back. The worker ended the conversation in a louder voice. "I'm sure your men will keep him safe."

"God willing," the guard said.

The two parted.

Altair followed the worker and his rolled bit of parchment, working his way slowly closer and closer, before he lifted the man's load and disappeared to another alley, none the wiser. The Turkish letter explained to the regent of the guard's plans on placing his men for the execution at the end of the week, noting in carefully worded terms that these were the positions he always took during a trial and that everywhere was adequately covered. The assassin made his way back to the plaza, this time taking the roofs and ducking into a sky garden, hidden to all.

As the trials began below, Altair eyed the guards on the roofs, checking them against the letter he had nicked and plotting them out on the multiple sketches he had made of the plaza. The guards along the edge of the plaza would be of little consequence; he could bowl through those he needed and lose them in the streets. The archers were a different story, and they were many. He would have to take the time to kill them - silently - before he made his move, and that would take an arduous amount of time.

Difficulty was irrelevant, however; he had a job to do and he would to it to the best of his ability.

After the trials concluded - everyone sentenced to death, Altair took his moment to duck out of the sky garden and take to the streets. With the execution tomorrow, he needed to make his plan thorough and complete, there was little time - lest he have to wait for another execution and plan for that. He suspected he would be up all night...

He headed west, away from the plaza, to find a good place to plan his strike. People resting from the intensely hot summer sun occupied every courtyard he came across, and alleys or benches could have any guard passing by. The roofs were still an option, if it came to that, but Altair, too, was looking to avoid the heat, and sky gardens were not as efficient as a simple shaded alcove. He found one at last by one of the city gate, and stepped into the welcome shade. It was not, however, unoccupied.

"Ah, safety and peace, brother," said a journeyman, looking up tensely before relaxing.

Altair recognized the eyes, and the short stature; he frowned, searching his memory of a name. "Seosamh," he said, "Safety and peace."

"I had not heard you were on assignment here," the small journeyman said. "But, I've not been in town for a while; well, not since Majd Addin put a bounty on my head, and I ran to Masyaf to beg reassignment. That was just before the Templar attack."

That had been in spring, it was high summer now. "What happened?" Altair asked, sitting down on the packed earth and gesturing Seosamh to do the same.

The Jewish brother shrugged his shoulders. "I was caught picking pockets. I hear people are taken these days for even smaller offenses. I've been helping rebuild Masyaf but now the Master says it's time I faced the problem I caused." He snorted. "Not in the city for an hour and already some of the city guards are after me. I had thought the season away would dim their memories."

"How many?"

"Three of his men are after me," he said, sighing. "It was a novice mistake, too. A degenerate ran into me just as I was leaving. I'm never that clumsy usually. I don't know how I'm going to get to the Bureau and report to the new _dai_ , I hear his words are poisonous to those who make a bad impression on him."

Something inside Altair burned, and he was quick to open his mouth. "The _dai_ does not mince his words, and his tongue is very sharp, but he is intensely loyal to those in his command and he is proving to be an excellent teacher. I suspect he will welcome you."

Seosamh nodded, absorbing the advice. "You sound like you know him well. Perhaps if I mentioned your name that will better reflect on me."

Altair shook his head. "No, it would better reflect on you if you never mention my name."

The journeyman frowned, seeing a deeper story. Altair was quick to change topics. "I'm here to end Majd Addin's life. He's an execution planned for tomorrow that I will be infiltrating. Thinning his ranks will be helpful to me, and in exchange you can tell me what you know of him."

Seosamh scoffed. "I can handle myself, and I've not been here in over a season. I doubt anything I remember would be of use to you. Still..." he added, his eyes glancing over Altair's shoulder to the square in front of the gate. "Perhaps your blade could help. Get rid of them, and I'll search my memory for something worth your while."

Altair left the shaded nook, entering the sunlit square and keeping an eye out for the three guards Seosamh had named. Several degenerates were hanging around the square; Altair could see why the journeyman had been spotted so quickly. The sick men, laughing and groaning at things only they saw, often swung indeterminately at whatever outside stimulus they could find - including innocent passers by. Most knew to give them a wide berth, but one was walking around the narrow alleys, making it harder to do. There was a patrol going around, too, and the captain in charge seemed to eye the degenerate at every chance. Altair almost wondered if the degenerates had been placed deliberately, so the guards could arrest any man or woman upset by them, giving Majd Addin more stock for his bloody performances. The idea burned in the assassin's mind, and he wondered just how clumsy Seosamh was, or if it had been something else all together...

He shook his head, without proof the theory was useless. Instead, he closed his eyes and opened up his mind to the eagle inside him, his intense eyes taking in the square and looking for the three men hunting a brother. One entered a narrow alley, and Altair followed, deftly maneuvering a degenerate that lunged at him, going into the long shadows of midafternoon and stalking his prey. The guard stopped at a crate, leaning over and around it, hand on his sword and ready to arrest anyone he found. Altair was invisible behind him, and silently took his life.

The demoted assassin followed the alley through to the end, coming across the southern wall, and he spied a second city guard trailing behind a patrol. This would take some finesse. Altair stalked his target, a white shadow none could see. Gaining ground, he kept one eye on the patrol, waiting for the captain to speak to them briefly, using the distraction to plunge his hidden blade deep into his prey. Satisfied at a job well do _ne Jesus Christ I'll never get used to th_ is Altair continued to follow the patrol until they looped back around and out to the square, passing the degenerate.

Altair needed to step very quickly around the bony, starved man; the degenerate seemed determined to bowl him over, his giggles not quite sane as the demoted assassin at last exited the radius.

The third was much more difficult to find, and Altair plunged deeper into the city, checking alleyways and thoroughfares. After an hour of searching, he climbed to the roofs to get a better vantage point, only to spy the guard walking away from a sky garden. Altair quickly ducked his head back down below the roof, taking a moment to assess how to sneak up on the man. He waited thirty heartbeats before cresting the roof again; the guard was standing at a corner, eyes locked on the streets below him. Perfect.

Altair pulled himself up to the roof and dashed at full speed to the guard, taking a running leap. The man turned just in time to see the white cloak of death enshroud him, Altair's hidden blade plunging deep into the soft tissue of his neck. He let out a gurgled scream as the pair landed hard on the roof, but it was too late. The demoted assassin dragged the body to the sky garden and dumped it there before taking a ladder down to the streets and backtracking to the city gate. It was late afternoon now; he had little time to spare.

Seosamh was slightly wide-eyed at Altair's accomplishment, and his voice gave away the smile under his colorless scarf.

"Now I am starting to understand why they call you The One," he said, nodding. Altair perked, wondering when that rumor had begun to spread. "But, what could I tell you that would be of any help? Hmm," Seosamh crossed his arms, head dipping down slightly as he searched his mind. "Oh yes. Majd Addin enjoys lecturing his prisoners before executing them. While doing so, he turns his back to the crowd. I'm sure it is the perfect moment to strike. Does that help?"

Altair pictured the moment, working it into his plan. "Yes, I can use it."

"Then I've proven my worth. Now I must go to the Bureau."

"We are both going there," Altair offered, "I will walk with you."

"Yet another favor I owe you," the informant said.

The two navigated the streets, talking quietly and catching up. Seosamh was a permanent resident, living in the Jewish Quarter and working as a basket weaver. He was a few years older than Altair, married a year before. The wife knew of the Order, and had kept his shop running while he was away. "I really don't know what I'd do without her," he said, a happy lilt in his voice. "I hope you can find a woman as fulfilling as she one day."

"Zamil has made similar overtures," Altair said. "He has settled in Damascus as a merchant in the Sarouja district and already found a girl."

"I suppose it happens to us all," Seosamh said with an overdone sigh. "Though I wonder what kind of woman could possibly catch your eye. You are too serious, it scares them away."

"I have no interest in settling down," Altair said, "Not anymore."

"Oh, yes, I had heard of Adha. I am sorry my friend."

Altair grit his teeth, not wanting to talk about it. He opened his mouth to change topic when a distraught voice caught both their ears.

"My son? They have my son? What is to be done with him?"

The two turned as one, looking to two men, one trying to placate the other.

"Ahmad, we did everything we could."

The other, the father, grabbed the first's shoulders, roaring, "WHAT IS TO BE DONE WITH HIM?"

The other man crumpled under the pleading voice. "... He's to be executed, tomorrow."

The father stared in blank shock, the revelation hanging in the air. "No," he moaned, his voice low and flat, almost dead. "I won't allow it."

The other took his turn to grab the man's arm, pleading. "But what can _we_ do? Majd Addin will hear no appeals; he says there can be no barter with God's will."

The father shook his head violently. "This is not God's will, but madness. I'll go to him myself! Where is he?" He spun away from his friend, marching blindly down an alley, causing the other to catch up.

"He will attend the execution," he said quickly, "perform it even," he added with disgust. "He enjoys the act... Truly evil man."

"We have no time to lose, then; let's go! I will save my son!"

Altair stared after the two for a long, long time, his fists clenching at his sides. Majd Addin, he wondered what cryptic justification the man could offer for creating scenes like this. Surely there could be none. But then, he had thought that for the others, too. Seosamh touched his arm gently, and the two resumed their trek back to the Bureau.

It was blessedly empty when they arrived, the Jewish journeyman talking with Malik quickly, introducing himself before going deeper into the building to spend the night. It would take him time to reestablish himself in the city, create a cover story for his absence, and acclimate to the changed climate of the Holy City. Altair waited in the courtyard, reluctant to start another fight in front of the journeyman. Once they were alone, he entered.

"What news, novice?" Malik asked, his tone wry, almost light.

Altair bit back a sigh and resigned himself to the fact that the damage was perhaps too great. "I am not a novice," he corrected simply, quietly.

"A man's skill is defined by his actions," Malik countered, "not the markings on his robe."

He did not want a fight. There was simply no time for it. "We can trade barbs or do Al Mualim's work, it's your decision."

"Then be out with it," Malik hissed, pulling out the record book.

"Jerusalem's regent Majd Addin is holding a public execution not far from here tomorrow. It's sure to be well guarded but it's nothing I can't handle. I know what to do."

Malik glared at the demoted assassin, leaning forward. "And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes. You cannot 'know' anything, only suspect. You must expect to be wrong, to have overlooked something. _Anticipate,_ Altair. How many times must I remind you of this?"

More harsh words. But in proof, there was some truth to them, and Altair worked to take it in stride. "... As you wish." He could not completely hide the clipped tones, however. "Are we done?"

"Not quite," Malik said, his tone changing. "There is one more thing: One of the men to be executed is a brother, one of us. Al Mualim wishes for him to be saved. Do not worry about the actual rescue; my men will take care of that."

"No," Altair said.

"What?"

"No," he repeated. He walked the length of the counter and grabbed a stool from a nearby table, dragging it back to the counter as he began pulling out his drawings and maps. "We cannot work independently in a mission such as this, we will only get in each other's way. Better then to work together so that each knows what the other is planning and doing at all times. We cannot fail in this. Who was captured?"

Malik stared hard at Altair in the evening light, gauging, assessing. "... Farasat," he said at last.

Altair startled, though he did not show it. "How?"

"He was speaking to a merchant in the _souk_ north of here and was arrested for being a heretic. He was immediately put to trail today and convicted. He was going to report to Masyaf."

Altair marveled. He had been at the trials just a few hours ago, ignoring the proceedings and looking at the guards and their positions. If he had paid attention... No, such thoughts would do him no good. He shook his head, rubbing his forehead and grinding his teeth. "We have no time to waste," he said instead, and laid out all the drawings he had been doing of the western wall plaza. "How well do you know the Jewish quarter?"

Malik pulled out his map of the city that he had been working on and Altair studied it briefly. "It is technically accurate, but do you _know_ the city? The locations of sky gardens or haystacks or hidden courtyards? Places to hide or place your men?"

The _dai_ glared at him, a frown pressed against his face. "You think I've had time to explore the city?"

Altair looked up. "Of course you have. You are too detail-oriented to not spend every free moment of your time committing the city to memory. All the better to anticipate, correct?"

Something flitted over the _dai's_ face, gone too quickly for Altair to read, before an answer came. "I've come to know the Muslim district the best, though I prefer to know it more before I can say anything with confidence. The Christian quarters I can recognize, but I know little of the Jewish district.

The demoted assassin nodded, looking at Malik's map and comparing it to his own. "Then there are some things you should know."

And the two began to plan.

Apprentices and journeymen alike returned from their various assignments and startled to see the _dai_ and the assassin working so closely together. Many skirted the back room entirely, uncertain what might happen and hesitant to see any explosions. Those that stayed kept to the chessboard, though it was obvious where their attentions were as the two men continued their work.

"No, no, that is foolishness! How can you propose to place a man there right out in the open?"

"Because there is a derelict sky garden there, I used it myself when I was observing the guard locations! How can you assume that this is such a better location?"

"Because it will be shaded at the time of the execution and easier to access!"

Several such outbursts breached the Bureau walls, and it wasn't long before those brave enough to hide around the chessboard decided it just wasn't safe to stay there, and soon the two were alone. They stayed up late into the night, working out how to stage the assault. The night air cooled considerably, and the lamps provided more than just light as they poured over their maps and diagrams. The hashish incense kept them awake if not always alert, and the overwhelming sense of losing time pressed them to work through their differences of opinion quickly.

"I will need a signal," Altair said finally, rubbing his burning eyes. "To know when your men have taken care of the archers."

"Each man will carry a pigeon. They'll release it one by one; no one will notice unless they realize pigeons don't fly at regular intervals. That is how we did it in Damascus."

Altair frowned, thinking. "I might miscount the number of birds if any of the local flocks are startled. Is the eagle still here? Release her last so that I know for sure."

"Eagle?" Malik asked, blinking.

Altair shook his head. "Of course it's dead, it's been five years since I last saw her. Baasir found her outside the city and nursed it. He told everyone in the Bureau that assassins are like eagles: silent birds of prey that screech only to make their work known to the masses, and that we should always be open to the eagle in our mind. She made a nest on the watchtower near here, and he would task apprentices to climb it and retrieve a stray feather from the nest. Sometimes he would catch her and release her if we needed a signal like now." Perhaps smoke signals would work best?

They worked for hours. The still silence of the night settled over them, the temperature evening out and darkness surrounding their small sphere of lamplight. Even the insects could not be heard as they worked, the men absorbed in doing their best. They were alone in a small lamp-lit world; nothing existing beyond the small flame's light. Silence surrounded them like a blanket, and everything was still save themselves. They had finally ironed out where to place Malik's men; most of them would be tasked with killing the archers surrounding the large plaza, while a small handful would wait in the crowd to snatch Farasat and anyone else Altair managed to save in his assassination. Halim had reported at some point, time interminable in the dim Bureau room; that he didn't even need to arrange to place scholars at the site, they were planning to attend. Altair would not use throwing knives, as he had initially planned, but would have to manage to get on the stage itself and kill Majd Addin in front of the entire crowd, drawing as much attention to himself as possible so that Farasat's escape would go unnoticed. It was well past midnight, the apprentices and journeymen long since gone to sleep. Between the two of them Altair's sketches had smeared terribly, and he was in the process or redrawing them in charcoal when Malik suddenly asked a question.

"Who is Adha?"

The charcoal broke in his fist.

"... No one," he said quietly.

He looked up to see Malik studying him again, his face carefully neutral. "The men here," he said softly, his voice still neutral, "They speak of her in hushed whispers, and when they do they say your name, and hang their heads. Who is she?"

_"I will find you Adha!"_

The memory of it all burned through Altair's mind, and he rubbed his face again.

His reticence pulled a dark frown out of Malik, and he moved to press harder. "Altair-" he started in dangerous tones but Altair beat him to it.

"The Templars took her," he said in a flat, dark voice.

Whatever he had been expecting from Malik's probing, he was surprised to see honest shock flush across the _dai's_ face. Uncomfortable, Altair refocused on the task at hand. "If the smoke signal was here, everyone could see it."

"Why did they take her?" Malik said instead.

Altair lowered his head, suddenly exhausted, and gave a deep sigh. Memories were filling his mind's eye, and he could not afford to think about this before a mission. "They believed her to be the Chalice," he said in short, clipped tones. "She hid here for a time. It was she who identified Harash as a traitor. When I went to Alep to deal with him, they took her. I made it to Basilisk's ship, but I learned later that she had been ferried off on a different one. Is there anything else you wish to know?"

"... You knew her before, didn't you?"

Altair said absolutely nothing, refusing to relive the memories, refusing to give in to the weakness. He would find Adha one day, he _would_ , and then the memories would not longer be tainted. He went back to retracing the lines of his map in charcoal, stubbornly silent.

Malik stared at him for a long, long time, before going back to his own work.

At dawn, Malik called out every free hand he had and gave them their assignments. Several looked at Altair, knowing he had a role to play and curious to see what the famed assassin would do, but they all knew the importance of their respective tasks, and they quickly dispersed, preparing.

"The executions will be at noon," Malik said. "My men will take care of everything, but you must ensure that Majd Addin does not take Farasat's life."

"I won't give him the chance," Altair said.

"... So I hope."

He did not need to go over the plan, and instead went to the warming courtyard to catch three hours sleep, Malik no doubt doing the same, in hopes of being more alert when the time came. The demoted assassin's sleep was poor, filled with memories of Adha, Farasat as he taught, Baasir and chess, sneaking into Alep to kill Harash, fighting through everyone to Basilisk's ship only to discover it was the wrong one, Farasat demonstrating how to be invisible in a crowd and watching with envy as he did so, the assault on Masyaf and Alep by Templars, and how the cursed red cross seemed to take everything away from him, even his friendship with Malik. Altair woke with a start, more tired than when he had gone to sleep, and growled before going to the fountain washing his face, running wet fingers through his hair and willing himself to f _ocus just focus..._

* * *

Desmond blinked, startled as he stared at the walls of the inner courtyard of the Bureau.

_"What happened this time, damn it?"_

Desmond blinked again, looking around. "His thoughts..." he mumbled.

_"What, Desmond?"_ Lucy asked.

"Uh, nothing, I think," he said quickly, shuffling on his feet. It didn't feel right, talking about all of Altair's other memories, the ones that had nothing to do with these nine Templars he was sent to kill. Desmond felt almost dirty seeing the other man's pain and thoughts. The dreams... if they were half right then Altair had fought through a freakin' army to get to Adha, only to find out that the ship had sailed - literally. The anguish of that moment was still so _raw_ in his ancestor's head. Desmond had seen, felt, glimpses of it before, but that... that was private. He shouldn't have seen that.

_"Well, what are you waiting for? Synchronize!"_

"Sure, doc," Desmond said, forcing levity into his voice he didn't feel. "Just as soon as you stop having a conniption."

He washed his face in the fountain, or at least he tried to until he realized the construct hadn't been programmed with all the right properties of water, and he couldn't feel wet even when he did manage to trick the system into splashing water on him. Sighing, he climbed out of the Bureau with the ease of his ancestor and ascended the roofs and their mid-afternoon heat. He had a plaza to get to.

Standing on the roof, looking around, Desmond had to admit, just running from rooftop to rooftop, climbing and leaping rafters or crates or scaffolding, it was a tempting thing. This was a construct and he could see what would be too far and what would be just enough space to be the difference between good and proficient. While he had kept up those skills as best he could since he ran away, if only for some of the fun of being able to go where no one else could, he knew that he wasn't as good as Altair. Desmond couldn't help but wonder if, in this avatar of his ancestor, whose skill he would have. His own diminished one, or Altair's mastery?

And just running across the rooftops would be a wonderful way to forget about the pain and agony that Altair was currently (had been) going through as he prepared to assassinate another Templar.

But this was a construct. One where his every move was watched by War _den_ Vi _dick_ and whoever else saw the recordings of his sessions.

As such, Desmond couldn't let on how much skill he did (or didn't) have.

With a silent sigh, he rolled his shoulders. "Map, Jerusalem," he said. After the map fluttered into his pack he pulled it out. Really, he could have just gone back into the Bureau and studied Malik's maps, but as well as his ancestor knew every alley and back way through the Holy City, Desmond _didn't_. He needed the old-fashioned approach. Besides, he learned from earlier attempts to synchronize with Altair that he couldn't pick up objects in this construct.

Once glance at the map, however, had Desmond looking up to the sky.

"Okay, just how _stupid_ do you think I am?"

" _Is there a problem, Mr. Miles?_ "

"My map has a giant X on where this Majd Ad- _dim_ is."

" _And explain to me, Mr. Miles, how this is a problem?_ " Vidic's voice was all smooth condescension.

Desmond shut his mouth firmly and bit back all the responses coming to his head for that arrogant-god-complex-smarmy-old- _bastard_! He'd been wandering around in Altair's head long enough that he knew, _thank you_ , that he needed to get to the West Wall Plaza, he just needed the map to give himself directions. Even finding the West Wall Plaza on a map was simplicity itself. Find the Dome of the Rock, look to the west. Really, did he need a giant _Go Here_ pointing obviously to his destination like he was some ignorant idiot who couldn't even read a map?

A few deep breaths to control his anger and Desmond studied the map enough to know what he needed for landmarks and directions before putting it away. He looked down to the streets then across the rooftops. He had vague flashes of Altair's memory that the street that lead to the plaza was guarded and Desmond didn't really care to try and figure out how to get past the guards.

Decision made, Desmond started to cross the rooftops like he was some sort of beginner, waving his arms around to look like he could get off-balance easily, studying gaps he knew would be a cakewalk before taking a running leap that was far too overdone, and crawling across beams with hands and feet to make sure that it didn't look like he knew a damn thing about free-running.

The archers that surrounded the plaza were, at best, an annoyance. Desmond kept a wide berth of them and stayed hidden as best he could. The one time an archer seemed to see him, the NPC said nothing, merely drawing his bow in warning. Desmond quickly retreated into a sky garden, once again grateful that the NPCs were so stupid. Once the archer turned around, Desmond oh-so-cautiously leapt to the roof and then eased his way down to the street, just behind a pair of guards meant to search people who came so close to the Dome of the Rock. From there it was simp _licity itself to blend into the crowd._

* * *

Altair was but a blade in the crowd, mingling as more and more sought to quench their thirst for blood by watching such a public execution of such petty crimes. On the left was Farasat, bare-headed and standing proudly. On the far right was a woman, her head held high despite severe trembling. Between them were two men, one round and the other skinny and both were unable to imitate Farasat's calm collection or the woman's attempt and righteousness. All were tied to poles.

Among the crowd, cheers and jeers were shouted, to Altair's disgust. But as he let the press of people move him towards the front, he noted that there were also cries of outrage, though they were few.

A row of guards stood, evenly spaced, in front of the crowd, keeping them at a distance from the stage. Two more guards were at the stairs that lead up to the "guilty" and a glance at the rooftops showed that the archers were keeping a sharp eye out, each with their bow already drawn and notched.

Altair stayed back from the precise front of the crowd that was in front of the guards, watching he sky for the signal.

His focus was distracted, when the crowd let out a loud cheer and two guards escorted out his target, the butcher regent Majd Addin. The target was tall, taller than even Altair, in expensive blue robes embroidered in gold. He waved to the crowd as he crossed the stage, a large smile visible despite his bushy black beard.

Centering himself onstage, the regent glanced back at his four captives before turning to face his citizens once more.

"Silence!" he bellowed, his voice deep and cruel sounding as he manipulated the crowd like a master performer. "I demand silence!"

Once the crowd quieted, he spread his arms wide. "People of Jerusalem, hear me well! I stand here today, to deliver a warning!"

Altair scoffed, looking to the sky once more.

"There are malcontents among you!" the regent continued. "They sow the seeds of discontent! Hoping to lead you astray! Tell me! Is this what you desire?"

The crowds, be it from fear or agreement shouted, "No!"

"To be mired with deceit and sin?"

" _No_! We do not!"

"To live your lives in _fear_?"

Altair shook his head. Let others think he was affirming the regent. In truth he could not believe the rhetoric of such madness. All other Templars he had faced had a vision that he wished fulfilled. What could Majd Addin possibly be working towards with such barbarism?

"Then you wish to take action?"

"Yes!"

"We do!"

"Your devotion pleases me," the regent gave a small bow that Altair read as pure mockery. "This evil must be purged! Only then can we hope to be redeemed."

"This is not justice!" a man from the crowd shouted, his black and white _keffiyeh_ hanging loose from his head. "And all of you stand idle! Complicit in his crimes!" He ran forward, pushing through the line of guards while an ally came up behind. It was the father from before, hoping to rescue his son.

"God curse you all!"

The two pulled out short curved swords and were almost to the stage when arrows rained down from above. The guards at the foot of the stairs finished it off, each pulling out swords and stabbing the would-be disrupters through the necks before retaking their stations. The crowd screamed and pulled away, then froze as the intruders were so efficiently, brutally, and effectively stopped.

Majd Addin used it as an opportunity. "See how the evil of one man spreads to corrupt others?" he shouted. "They sought to instill fear and doubt within you. But _I_ will keep you _safe_!"

Altair looked to the sky once more, refraining from glaring outright at the archers who had committed such slaughter. The archers, the guards, they knew that there was a price to be paid for protecting such a madman. They only did their jobs and accepted the risk. It was the madmen that needed his blade.

Besides. Malik's men would take down the archers. Altair need not worry about extracting vengeance from them for it would already be done.

That didn't stop Altair from wondering if something had happened to Malik's men. Surely they were in position by now?

Not only in position, but done, it seemed, as an arrow aflame flew across the sky.

Altair focused on his target and eased his way forward.

"Here now, are four _filled_ with sin! The harlot. The thief. The gambler. The _heretic_ ," he almost spat at Farasat. "Let God's judgment be brought down upon them all!"

The crowd once more cheered.

Altair pushed the noise away and focused. The row of guards was far enough apart that Altair easily rushed through. Unlike the previous men, arrows did not fell him. Instead, in one great leap, Altair was up on the stage, blade almost in the regent's back when some sense seemed to make Majd Addin turn. Altair's strike was not perfect, but the blade buried itself into the regent's stomach nonetheless. It would be a slow and painful death as blood started spurting and flowing from the wound. But no physician could cure him now.

The crowd behind him screamed, starting to run, as the guards that surrounded the stage closed in.

That was fine for Altair. This was his chance to distract them as Malik's men would release the prisoners on stage.

With a leap, he pulled out his short sword while in midair and brought it slashing down on one of the guards from a shoulder down to the groin before switching his grip on the sword, lunging up to the left and slashing another guard, from hip to neck, and letting the momentum swing him into a round kick to a man's jugular that left him choking. As Altair's foot came down his short blade flashed again, severing a neck in a spray of blood and Altair spun, shoving his hidden blade into another guard.

Altair stood still, short sword parallel to his forearm as the five who had immediately surrounded him suddenly fell all at once.

The moment of stillness ended as someone shouted out something and Altair was moving again. Two of his knives went flying, one going into a man's open mouth as he was stupid enough to shout his charge and the other burying itself unerringly into a man's most delicate area. Altair dodged a swinging blade, bringing his short sword down into the guard's foot before pulling it out and letting the sharp edge catch on the man's neck as he looked down to his bleeding boot. Spinning Altair aimed high, slashing the eyes of another guard before grabbing a different guard and throwing him onto the sword of an approaching captain.

Turning, Altair slashed at another guard, letting his blade go from the man's hand all the way up to the shoulder, peeling flesh from bone like a butcher before turning in another direction and kicking a guard in the groin. This brought him to his knees and Altair wasted no time in plunging his hidden blade into the man's neck as he blocked a strike with his short sword. Ducking low, he slashed across the guard's stomach and let the momentum carry him to a roll where, as he stood, he sliced the back of another guard's knees, crippling him and then he threw another knife that sliced one man's neck before burying itself into the eye of the shorter guard behind him.

The man with the grazed neck lunged forward and Altair spun around the obvious strike and plunged his short sword into the man's back. The first strike was deflected by the collar bone, so Altair stabbed him again, this time piercing the lung as he had wished and pulled out the blade just in time to deflect a heavy sword to the side, leaving the back exposed for a quick slash along the shoulders and somewhat down the other arm. Another knife flew, driving through an ear into the brain of a guard trying to circle around him as Altair's short sword sliced open a back from shoulder to hip, exposing the ribcage. Another knife buried itself into another guard's stomach, making him curl down over himself.

A patrol that had heard all the screams came into the plaza to join the fray and a quick glance at the stage showed Farasat was free but the assassins were still working to free the others. Majd Addin still lay on the stage, struggling to move. None helped him.

The patrol was starting to surround him and Altair was panting under the hot afternoon. Twenty-two men lay dead at his feat, only two not from his hand, but he still had brothers on the stage to protect. A deep breath. Then another.

Once more in control of himself, Altair threw another knife. It appeared to miss the lieutenant and hit the rock wall of the West Wall Plaza, but an assassin on the stage quickly picked it up to use on the ropes still holding the "guilty". Muscles burning, Altair launched himself at the captain of the patrol first, the one with the most experience and thus the most dangerous.

The captain was actually quite skilled with a blade and Altair had to back up and reassess. With a flick of his short sword to fling the blood off of it, he sheathed it and pulled out his heavier sword. The captain reached out, trying to grab Altair as he switched blades, but Altair leapt back. He needed to draw this out and to let the brothers behind him finish their task and now that the odds weren't so overwhelming, it was time to take more measured steps.

Altair slowly moved backward, stepping over the bodies of the dieing and dead around him.

"One man could _not_ have done all this," a younger patrolman said.

"Oh he did," the captain replied harshly. "Look at those clothes. He's bathed in blood."

"I wish no harm on those who protect this city," Altair said quietly. "Leave."

"Hah!" the lieutenant spat. "We protect this city from the likes of _you_."

"And I protect it from madmen like the so-called regent."

"Protecting this Holy City you may be," the captain spat, "but that means you think us fools who cannot do it ourselves. You don't even deserve a trial. We will simply kill you."

Altair let out a quiet sigh. "You may try."

The captain charged forward first, his men acting as a unit and closing the gap left behind. Altair blocked it, grabbing the wrist with his left hand while his right hand swung up his long sword, effectively breaking the man's arm before turning shoving the blade through the young patroller who tried to sneak up behind him. A firm kick sent the body off his sword and he spun, his sword out, making the circle a little wider and giving him more room.

The lieutenant was as good as the captain, giving orders with just the flick of his eyes. Altair swung his sword down onto the joint of shoulder and neck of the patroller in front of him so quickly the man didn't even try to bring his sword up to block and wrenched it out in what appeared to all as an awkward move, but really let him carry the momentum around to the arm of the man trying to edge in behind him, effectively severing it at the elbow.

That left only three left of the patrol. Behind them, Altair could see that the assassins and the "guilty" had all disappeared.

Good.

Altair flicked his wrist and three more knives went flying. One to a neck, one to a stomach, and one to a groin; effectively sending the remaining men around him down to the ground.

He took a moment to clean both of his blades with his red sash before tiredly walking over to the stage and up to the still struggling executioner. Altair kneeled down and helped the so-called regent up slightly.

"Your work is at an end," he said quietly.

"No!" he coughed. " _No_! It has only just begun!"

Altair frowned. "Tell me, what is your part in all this? Do you intend to defend yourself as others have, and explain away your evil deeds?" Because for all that the Templars had believed in what they did, for all that Altair could see their reasoning in some of their objectives, he would _never_ agree with their methods.

Majd Addin shook his head. "The Brotherhood wanted the city..." he muttered, "I wanted power. There was..." he gasped for breath. "...an opportunity."

Altair's frown thinned. "An opportunity to murder _innocents_!" he hissed.

"Not so innocent!" the regent growled back. "Dissident voices cut as deep as steel. They disrupt order. "In this, _cough, cough_ , I do agree with the Brotherhood."

Meaning any who questioned was seen as a threat. No open ideas or room for improvement, only one person to rule over all with a steel grip so tight none may breath. For all that Al Mualim maintained strict discipline, he always let one speak so that he could convince you of your errors. This, this Templar method was despicable. "You'd kill people simply for believing differently from you?"

"Of course not!" was the wheezed response. "I killed them because I could! Because it was _fun_!" Majd Addin gave a chocked laugh. "Do you know what it feels like to determine another man's fate?"

In this, Altair's frown was directed at himself, because that sounded disturbingly like something he would have thought mere months ago. Not that killing was fun. Killing was never fun for Altair. But the chase, the challenge. There was a certain thrill he always had on his missions. He had relished in knowing how powerful he was. In his targets being fearful. And when the cold pain of killing any in order to find Adha had taken over, he had merely gone through his missions grimly, killing any who were in his way so that he might be that much closer to the one mission that would lead him to her.

Malik had been quite correct in comparing him with this madman.

But unlike this so-called regent, Altair could learn from his mistakes.

Majd Addin coughed viciously, but continued. "And did you see how the people cheered? The way they feared me? I was like a _god_! You'd have done the same if you could! Such power..."

He started coughing once more.

Altair looked down at this rich and learned regent and felt nothing but pity. For this was how he once was. "Once perhaps," he admitted, "but then I learned what becomes of those who lift themselves above others."

"And what is that?"

"Here," Altair unsheathed his hidden blade. "Let me show you."

This quick death was far more than what such a madman deserved, but Altair saw too much of himself and how he used to be to do anything but take pity on the man. Altair had been given a second chance by Al Mualim. Majd Addin would not take a second chance and could not even see the error in his ways.

Altair brushed the feather across the fresh neck wound gently as the regent breathed his last breath.

He stood, looking down at his stained clothes. None were in the plaza and no doubt many wouldn't come for hours after the massacre that had taken place. But it was still too much in the open for his comfort. Swiftly wiping his hands on his ruined white robes, he grabbed the _keffiyeh_ off one of the two dead men that Altair had not killed. He quickly ascended to the roofs, his tired muscles protesting after the strenuous fight he'd been in mere moments before. The hot sun setting off to the west didn't help much either.

Once on the roofs, he slowly made his way to the nearest sky garden. He needed to be rid of these bloodied clothes if he hoped to make it back to the Bureau.

Altair needed only to climb one more roof when a guard patrolling the darkening streets spotted him and made to give chase.

Not wishing to deal with this, Altair simply leapt up to the roof, breaking the guard's line of sight and headed to the sky garden so that he might hide and change clothes.

Unfortunately, it seemed the guard's cries alerted an archer on a nearby rooftop and an arrow flew by his face before he could reach the desired hiding spot. With a sigh, Altair took off, his bloodied coattails flying out behind him. As he ducked around rooftops, alleys and courtyards, the numbers pursuing him increased to a half dozen as Altair moved up through the Muslim district. So with a tired sigh, he pushed himself further north and away from the Bureau.

The benefit of the Muslim district, at least, was that the roofs were at many different heights. The Jewish district was poor and didn't have any residents that could afford to build up, leaving many roofs at similar level. But with the varying levels of the Muslim district, Altair had a much easier time breaking their line of sight.

After clambering up over a roof, he dropped easily to a lower roof, so that any close to his heels still didn't see him, and slid easily into a sky garden, where he controlled his breathing, closed his eyes and just listened.

The guards were still shouting as they ran by, trying to follow his most likely trail and Altair stayed as still as possible, listening to their calls as they dropped down to the street and started to spread out, calling out to each other to see if they could find his trail again.

Altair waited another hour before letting himself move. In the darkness of the sky garden he pulled off his robes. He folded them neatly and as compactly as possible, then hid them under his undershirt, which wasn't quite so stained. His hood went with the clothes and he wrapped the _keffiyeh_ around both his head and his face. Both his short blade and long blade were tied together and buckled to the back of his belt, covered by the cleaner parts of his outer robes that he could rip and spare. Between the change of the clothes and the darkening sky, he doubted any of the guards would recognize him. Still, he waited another hour before leaving the safety of the sky garden.

Majd Addin was mad. He killed because he enjoyed it. Jerusalem was now free of his reign, and the deed had been accomplished. Though it appeared he betrayed them, he claimed membership with the same brotherhood as the others Altair had killed. Why did they seek control of the cities? Al Mualim would have answers; he had to.

It was dusk when Altair finally climbed down, lanterns already lit against shadows. Despite how it had been hours since Jerusalem's regent had died, the alarm bells still rang and guards were still patrolling in groups of two or more. Altair stayed within any groups of people that remained still out. However, as it was the Muslim district, many were already inside, getting ready for _Magrib_ prayers.

Altair was in an alley, sitting peacefully on a bench and keeping his blades hidden in the gap behind the bench and the wall behind him, when another patrol of seven walked by, swords all drawn.

They had just passed when one of the junior patrollers turned, looking more closely at Altair.

"Captain?" he asked quietly.

The patrol halted and the captain turned, coming back to the junior patroller.

"What?"

"That man on the bench..."

Altair silently cursed, casually shifting and grabbing his swords, ready to leave.

"He is dressed differently, but I recognize the boots. The left boot has the same knives that I saw when I... uh... retreated from the plaza."

Altair waited no more and took off running. He exited the alley and curved sharply down the road, leaping through a merchant stand and leaving it collapsing behind him. Another sharp turn down a different alley to another street and he saw a cart of hay that he dove into, once more waiting for the patrol to go running by.

Once it was silent around him once more, he exited the hay cart, shaking off stray bits as he walked steadily away, growing weary of the day's exertions after such a heavily hot day.

He finally reached the Bureau nearly two hours later, well after dark. He dropped into the courtyard with a quite sigh of gratitude to finally be back in the safety of the Bureau's walls.

"Jerusalem needs a new ruler," Altair offered quietly, pulling out the bloodied feather.

Malik looked up from his maps, the candlelight highlighting his pinched brow. "So I have heard," he replied.

Tired, Altair couldn't stop a smile. "What's this?" he said with put-on surprise. "No words of wisdom for me? Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion."

Malik's frown deepened. He replied with no humor, "You have preformed as an _assassyun_ should. No more, no less. That you expect praise for merely doing as told, however, troubles me."

Altair sighed. It seemed they would never return to the friendship they once had. "It seems everything I do troubles you," he said sadly.

"Reflect on that," Malik replied. "But so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done."

"Is Farasat well?"

Malik merely nodded.

Altair did not try to get anything else, and went to the courtyard to get some well-earned rest. He pulled out his bloodied cloths and blades, setting them aside and arranged himself on the cushions.

Exhaustion, as always, proved a very good defense against dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished Revelations this week, cried at the end unabashedly. (Altair! _Altair_! And _Ezio!_ Fratello mio! And... and _Embers_! (fawns) )
> 
> Er, anyway, lots to say about this chapter. First off, it was ridiculously hard to pick out a Jewish name (Seosamh) that couldn't be easily mistaken for a Christian one. In the end, though, that's neither here nor there. The fun part about that investigation was the theory that crazies work for Templars - we hate crazies infinitely more than beggars; beggars just stop you in your tracks, degenerates shove you into patrols, and they were the single most frustrating aspect of the game when we first played it. Seosamh's investigation took an ungodly number of tries (though there's an investigation in Acre that took us even longer...) and we had to pay homage to all that work.
> 
> Also worthy of note: Farasat's prediction on combining caution with boldness to make cunning comes to fruition here. We both firmly believe that these two had to work together to do this assassination, and the hours leading up to it, planning in the dark with only a small sphere of candlelight, has been in our (my) head for a long time, as was the conversation of Adha. Not having played the PSP game where she is a prominent character, we ultimately tiptoed around her story, but we think Altair's reticence on the subject is more telling that spilling his guts. The unnoticed display of vulnerability on his part also officially makes Malik sit up and take notice of the changes going on in him - and in true Malik fashion his response it to kick Altair out as soon as the mission is done. He's not ready for this newer, thoughtful Altair. The time away will help (because we all know about their NEXT conversation :D)
> 
> We also like that Altair just assumes Malik knows the city already, not even thinking about that amputated arm. That's so like him.
> 
> And, at the risk of stating the obvious, this is hands down the bloodiest assassination of the game (er, well, except for the end, but that's different...) Go back and count all the bodies when the fighting is done. Go on, count them. It was a slaughter. It was violent, too, in honor of the games kill animations (some of which we actually used, if you look carefully). It's an M-rated game for a reason!
> 
> And with that, we now check in on Desmond (and Lucy). Surely he can get some hacking accomplished now, right?


	16. Apple of Discord

Altair stayed in Jerusalem for two more days while Farasat recuperated enough to be able to ride. Malik did not speak to him and seemed preoccupied by something, of which Altair was not privy to know. That was fine. It gave him time to catch up with his old pickpocket teacher. The others at the Bureau still fawned over the great Altair, and said assassin just tried to avoid it.

The ride to Masyaf took longer than Altair would have preferred. They had left under the cover of night and Farasat needed more rest stops due to both his age and his injuries, minor as they were. Still, arriving back home was something of a relief. Another assassin helped Farasat up the mountain and Altair took it upon himself to brush down both horses and look after what few items Farasat had brought with him. The old pickpocket teacher would stay in Masyaf for a time, no doubt, to let his anonymity return, before likely being reassigned to another city. Altair couldn't help but smile. He would have to introduce him to Rauf. The two would certainly have fun with the young novices.

As he finished brushing Farasat's horse and moved to his own, Altair turned to see Abbas coming down towards him.

"So, the traitor returns again, with injured brothers," the assassin growled. "What colossal mistake was it this time that got Farasat so bruised?"

Altair sighed. He would likely have to face such criticism for the rest of his life, particularly when it came to people like Abbas, who could not stand others who were better in skill stride arrogantly around. And while Altair _had_ been like that once, so full of himself he ignored all that was important, he _wasn't_ any more. Abbas, it seemed, would never forget. Not Altair's arrogance, nor his actions as a teen when the truth had hurt Abbas so completely.

So with a polite incline of his head, he merely replied, "I saved his life, as commanded by the _dai_ of Jerusalem. How he arrived in need of aide, I was not told."

Abbas crossed his arms, attempting to stare Altair down. The demoted assassin simply ignored him and went back to brushing his horse.

"Such arrogance, even now," the assassin muttered. "I see not what Al Mualim does. You are still the _bastard_ that you were before you led the Templars to our doorsteps."

"If you cannot see the changes within me," Altair replied coolly, using every fiber of his being to remain relaxed and to not stiffen at the insult to his parents, "then clearly I have more to learn."

"And now you mock me."

Altair shook his head. "If neither my deeds of repentance nor the words I say will change your opinion, then I can do nothing."

Altair finished brushing down the horse, giving both his and Farasat's extra grain for such a long and hot journey. Abbas didn't take kindly to the ignoring and simply stomped off.

Climbing up the long zig-zagging mountain trial, Altair, as he had during his previous visits to Masyaf, stopped off to talk to some of the townspeople. At first they were suspicious. Even they knew he was the one who had brought battle to their homes, and many who had lost loved ones still refused to talk to him. But some seemed to be noticing the change in him and, while not exactly friendly, weren't quite so hostile towards him.

In particular, he checked in with the basket-weaver's son, who had known nothing of what his father had done and had been left with the business and no full training.

"Ghassan," he greeted, the young man barely in adulthood waved with a wan smile from where he was weaving a small bowl.

"Master Altair," he greeted. "I welcome you. Have you need of any baskets yet?"

"Perhaps once I am no longer wandering," Altair replied, in the same dry tone of all their previous meetings. "Have things at last settled for you?"

"More or less," Ghassan replied. "My little sister, she has taken to exploring and is getting in more and more trouble."

Indeed, the four-year-old was tugging at the young basket-weaver's pants. "Pick up!" she demanded.

"I'm working, Nuzhat," Ghassan replied lightly. "Please, go back to your doll."

Altair said nothing, merely sweeping the little girl up into his arms and holding her high above his head as he had enjoyed back in his dimmest memories. The girl giggled brightly as Altair lowered her to his chest.

"Eagle!" she greeted.

"No, Nuzhat, that's Master Altair."

"Eagle!"

"Hello to you as well," Altair replied quietly. Her hands were quickly reaching up under his hood, fascinated as always, that he _did_ have hair, just that it was covered.

"How are things in Masyaf?" Altair turned to the young basket weaver, lifting a hand up to the four-year-old's face. Her fascination with his hidden hair switched to his missing finger, as expected.

"Better. It's been a few months and many have returned to business as usual. Though our buildings still bear the scars, we will have them repaired before winter truly strikes us with cold."

"Good," Altair nodded, keeping his fingers out of Nazhat's grasp with quick, deft movements and keeping her occupied. "I had thought I saw more people."

To that, Ghassan chuckled. "That's because word has finally come down from the Teacher on how some of your missions have gone. They were impressed with your attempt to save those in Damascus from some evil merchant."

Altair stiffened. "I only do as I am commanded. I have not done anything to earn Masyaf's good will and I do not do my work to cave to what other's think." The assassination of Abu'l Nuquod was a disaster and Altair did _not_ want praise for it.

Ghassan shrugged. "As you wish, Master Altair. But your work _is_ changing other's opinion of you."

Others perhaps. But not Malik. As such, he still had much more redemption to do.

"Eagle!" Nazhat cried, reaching again for the fingers. "No fair!"

Altair gave a quiet chuckle. "Then you must improve your speed."

The girl put on a tremendous pout.

Ghassan groaned. "When she gets older I don't know _what_ I'll do."

Altair chuckled again and lifted the child higher before gently setting her down. "Your brother his busy," he said. "Your dolls need you more."

The girl pouted a moment more before putting on a huge smile. "Alright!"

"She always listens to you," Ghassan shook his head. "You are good with her."

Altair shook his head. "I only work on what I remember of my own parents. I'm certain there is much that I miss."

Ghassan laughed quietly. "I won't keep you, Master. You've a report to give, have you not?"

"Recent patterns suggest that Al Mualim will be busy in his study before he will see me."

"Ah, then the young novices and apprentices will be complaining of hard work soon," the basket-weaver smiled. "Shall I look forward to weaving more practice dummies?"

Altair offered a smile as he headed out. "Only time will tell."

He continued his hike up the mountain, stopping off with the grainer, grocer, blacksmith, and others that he usually visited to make sure he was well supplied for the next mission. With each he tried to stop and talk, as he did with young Ghassan, but with only marginal success.

Still, his attempts had at least made the villagers faces more familiar to him.

He spotted Rauf as he entered the fortress and headed over to the practice ring.

"Ah, Altair," the weapons master greeted warmly. "Have you come to show my students what it means to wield a blade?"

"Not today," Altair replied. "Tomorrow perhaps. But I thought you might like to know that my old pickpocket teacher, Farasat, will be here a few months."

Though his _tagelmust_ did not show it, Rauf gave a mighty grin. "I have only heard legends of Master Farasat's skill. I look forward to meeting him and seeing what we can do with these novices."

Altair gave a sly grin. "I suspect they'll be exhausted, after all three of us are through with them."

"Indeed! What a wondrous plan!"

"Is Al Mualim busy?"

Rauf nodded. "He's locked himself in his study again. Only ever comes out to eat. I know several reports have come in and he hasn't looked at them once. I suspect it will be a few days before you may speak to him."

Altair nodded. "Very well."

* * *

Three days later, Altair was standing with Farasat and Rauf with the novices, putting them through their paces, when Abbas came down to grunt at Altair that the Master would see him now.

"Come in, Altair," Al Mualim said warmly. "I trust you are well rested? Ready for your remaining trials?"

Altair nodded, noting that the treasure from Solomon's Temple was on the desk and opened. Some strange silver globe with widely spaced groves in a pattern or etching that Altair was unfamiliar with rested in Al Mualim's hands. A strange artifact.

"I am." Altair looked up from the strange globe and looked the Teacher in the eye. "But I would speak with you first," he asked quietly and respectfully. "I have questions."

"Ask them. I'll do my best to answer."

Altair launched into the one thing that was bugging him. "The Merchant King of Damascus murdered the nobles who ruled his city. Majd Addin in Jerusalem used fear to force his people into submission. I suspect William meant to murder Richard and hold Acre with his troops. These men were meant to aide their leaders; instead they chose to betray them. What I do not understand is why."

Garnier, Talal, Tamir, their roles together made sense. Nuquod, William, Majd Addin, their roles did not.

"Is it not obvious?" Al Mualim questioned, stepping forward. "The Templars desire control." He stroked the silver globe. "Each man, as you noted, wanted to claim their cities in the Templar name, that the Templars themselves might rule the Holy Land and eventually... beyond."

Altair nodded. It did make sense that way. But something was still missing. Something was there; he just could not see it.

"But they cannot succeed in their mission," Al Mualim concluded.

"Why is that?" Altair asked.

"Their plans depend upon the Templar treasure." The globe was stroked again. Altair had to admit he'd never seen a silversmith craft so smooth a globe. Even the best smiths he'd worked with could not do such a large casting, but at best, Altair estimated they would do two halves and fuse them. There seemed to be no such fusing, for the grooves were far too narrow. They would have to have been etched after the silver had cooled. Al Mualim held up the strange globe. "The Piece of Eden. But we hold it now." Al Mualim gave a cold, almost cruel smile. "They cannot hope to achieve their goals without it."

Altair frowned, not understanding. "What is this treasure?"

"It is _temptation_ ," the Teacher's voice held just the slightest hint of reverence and awe.

"It's just a piece of silver."

Al Mualim held it up again, letting the light from the window behind him shine. "Look at it!"

Altair shook his head. The twinge of a beginning headache began at the back of his head but he ignored it. "What am I supposed to see?"

The Master frowned, his eyes narrowing. "This 'piece of silver' cast out Adam and Eve. It turned staves into snakes, parted and closed the Red Sea. Eris used it to start the Trojan War; and with it, a poor carpenter turned water into wine."

This was... impossible. Stories of the Jewish and Christian and Greek myths. This piece of silver was the Golden Apple of Discord _and_ the Apple of Eden? A tool to change water to wine or part the vast seas?

Impossible.

Altair had befallen pure sorcery only once, and that was when Al Mualim had stabbed him, but didn't. Everything else... that was something that could have a logical explanation. There was no such thing as these miracles. So how was a small globe capable of such supposed wonders?

"It seems rather plain for all the power you claim it has. How does it work?"

"He who holds it commands the hearts and minds of whoever looks upon it. Whoever 'tastes' of it, as they say," Al Mualim replied, a strange note in his voice.

Altair gave an internal shake of his head. Then it was impossible. For Al Mualim could not control his heart or mind. The headache faded. No one could control another so. And how could one "taste" the silver? Who would put such faith in such ridiculousness? However...

"Then Garnier's men?"

"An experiment," Al Mualim answered, "herbs used to simulate its effects, to be ready for when they held it."

"Talal supplied them; Tamir equipped them. They were preparing for something." For why else would the regents of those three cities need the army that was being prepared? "But what?"

"War."

"And the others, the men who ruled the cities. They meant to gather up their people, make them like Garnier's men."

_Oh,_ it suddenly made so much sense it was terrifying.

"The perfect citizens," Al Mualim agreed, looking to this... Apple. "The perfect soldiers. A perfect world." Slowly, reverently, he replaced the piece of silver... the Piece of Eden, back into the winged egg, closing it with great care. More care than Altair had ever seen the Master give to anything.

"Robert de Sable must never have this back," Altair said firmly.

"So long as he and his brothers live, they will try." Al Mualim's hand rested on the egg.

"Then they must be destroyed."

Al Mualim gave a wry grin. "Which is what I've had you doing."

The list of nine. Good.

"There are two more Templars who require your attention." Al Mualim walked over to the pigeons. "One in Acre known as Sibrand. One in Damascus called Jubair. Visit with the Bureau leaders. They'll instruct you further."

"As you wish."

"Be quick about it," Al Mualim commanded. "No doubt Robert de Sable is made nervous by our continued success. His remaining followers will do their best to expose you. They _know_ you come. 'The man in the white hood.' They'll be looking for you." Al Mualim walked back to his desk and rested a hand on the treasure.

"They won't find me," Altair promised. "I am but a blade in the crowd."

The Master nodded. "Here. My gift to you. In gratitude for the good work you've done."

Altair stepped forward and took a sword from the table, one adorned ever so slightly at the hilt to show his ranking as an assassin. A junior assassin, but Altair was no longer a novice, apprentice, or journeyman in rank. He was finally an assassin once more. Something that he had desired so desperately at the start of this journey of redemption, and yet, all he cared about was that the blade was sturdier and stronger. The rank meant nothing, because what he had been learning was far more valuable.

Altair bowed his head and sheathed his sword. He had another journey to prepare for.

* * *

He blinked. The visor was pulling back. A quick shake of his head and the lingering feelings of Altair dispersed, leaving Desmond alone in his head, with only his own perceptions and knowledge.

Huh. He felt like he had just sat down. Desmond lifted his head, looking to Vidic who was pacing at the foot of the Animus. "We done already?" he asked.

"Get up," Vidic growled.

"Whatever you say, doc," Desmond replied lightly. He sat up and stretched, comparing the feeling to getting up after a short nap, though the comparison wasn't really accurate.

A phone beeped.

Vidic reached into his pocket as Desmond watched from the corner of his eye.

Vidic answered without even a "Hello," and just listened.

"I'm ending the session... Look, I'll be right there... You're _sure_ about this?... Yes... No, everything's Denver..." Vidic was pacing, agitation slipping into every step and his voice turned to a harsh whisper. "Don't see _how_ he could... Of course... I understand." Vidic ended the call and Desmond glanced back at Lucy, who was still studying the computer station on the Animus.

Vidic glared at Desmond. "You're in a lot of trouble, Mr. Miles." Then he stomped out of the lab like a black cloud was around him.

Desmond turned to Lucy again. "What's _his_ problem?" This time?

Lucy glanced around and said hurriedly, "They're coming for you."

Raising an eyebrow, he asked, " _Who's_ coming for me?"

"Assassins."

Desmond blinked, his face open in surprise, thoughts firing at light-speed in his mind. No _wonder_ Vidic was pissed. They thought he had somehow gotten a message out on where he was and what was happening. But for all his hacking and attempts, Desmond had come up empty. They _had_ to know that. It wasn't him. "Hey, I had _nothing_ to do with this!"

"Sounds like they're mounting some kind of rescue attempt," Lucy replied.

Desmond sat back down. The assassins that he'd abandoned were coming after him.

That was... that was...

That was something he couldn't afford to think about right now.

Lucy gave a sympathetic smile. "Guess you're more important than you realized."

"Man," he said, "things just keep getting weirder and weirder around here." And he wasn't even _doing_ anything to add to the weirdness.

Lucy shrugged. "It was bound to happen."

"What do you mean?" Desmond stood again, walking over to her.

"That little fight your ancestor started during the Third Crusade? It never ended."

... _What_?

"You're being held by Templars."

"Vidic's a _Templar_?" Pause and rewind, _what_?

"There's no way you could have known," Lucy hesitantly reached out and touched his arm, then pulled back. "They hide it so well," she looked away. "But to answer your question, Vidic _works_ for them. We all do. Abstergo is _their_ company."

This did _not_ make sense. "I thought Templars were old dudes with funny hats who sat around drinking beer, plotting world domination with the lizard people." Because Templars in today's world, almost a thousand years removed, was about that absurd. It was for the conspiracy theorists. And while there _were_ "conspiracies" Desmond agreed with (he stayed off the grid because of all the surveillance that was out there after all), he didn't go for the whack-quack theories that were out there.

"No," Lucy shook her head. "...Except the part about world domination I guess. Look, Desmond, it's complicated. Half the stuff they say about the Templars comes from crazy, tin-foil hat-wearing nut-jobs. The other half is misinformation _intentionally_ produced by the Templars themselves."

"But they _are_ the bad guys, right?" Desmond crossed his arms and said slowly. Too much. This was too much information all at once and it both made sense and didn't.

"If there's one thing I've learned, since I started working here, it's that there's no such thing." Lucy smiled sadly. "It's all so relative. I guess the best way to explain it is... What they _want_ is good. But the way they're going about it..." She shook her head again and looked away. "It's bad. _Really_ bad."

"What are they trying to do?"

He didn't get an answer as Lucy's phone rang. She went to get it.

" _Lucy_ ," Desmond reached out, lightly grabbing her wrist. He needed an answer from the one person he could trust in this God-forsaken place.

But her eyes flicked to the cameras, and Desmond let go of her wrist.

"Yes?" she answered the call.

" _Miss Stillman. I need to speak with you,_ " Vidic growled over the phone. " _Get up here. Now._ "

Right. People were watching.

"I'm on my way, Doctor." She hung up and looked at him with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Desmond. I have to go. You should turn in for the night." She turned and headed to the exit Desmond not could get through. "The answers to all your questions are right in front of you. You just have to know where to look."

Desmond glanced down immediately to her computer station and noticed that her id pen was just lying there. He held in a grin. He could grab it after she left. Given that she was trying to rush out since Vidic had called her, it was perfectly acceptable that she'd have forgotten it. Oh, Lucy was _good_. Now if he could just figure out a way to get the two of them _out_ of this rotten place.

"Please, Desmond, I'm going to get in trouble if I don't leave, and I can't leave until you're in your room."

He let out a tired sigh, partly for show, partly because he _was_ feeling tired. Running a hand through his hair he gave an apologetic smile. "Yes, ma'am," he offered.

Lucy gave a grateful smile. He walked towards his room, knowing that all he had to do was wait for a while, maybe an hour, and then he could go digging through computers again.

Strange, lethargy was coming from nowhere and he was starting to drag his feet. He was at the door to his room and he had to put an arm out to steady himself.

"Desmond?"

"Why am I suddenly so exhausted?" he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

Lucy was at his side, helping him to his bed. "That's because of the Animus. You were in it all day."

"All _day_?"

Lucy glanced away guiltily.

Right. Vidic had mentioned being able to stay in the Animus longer. Hence his big breakfast that morning.

"Being in the Animus _is_ work. Your body might not be doing much, but your mind is processing and interacting with a simulated world, sifting through memories not its own and, for all intents and purposes, recording them into your own brain. Not to mention shifting from your ancestor's perspective to your own, which happens more frequently when you can't synchronize well. Thankfully, aside from a random glitch or question, you've maintained synchronization well so you haven't had that strain."

"So because my mind had a workout of epic proportions, my body is now filled with lead."

Lucy actually gave a chuckle. "Something like that."

Desmond offered a tired grin. "I think I'll take my five-mile jog."

He was now laid out on his bed, Lucy keeping a professional distance, though her smile was all warmth. "Take a nap Desmond. Someone will be in with dinner soon."

Desmond shook his head. "Feels like all I've been doing is lying around," he muttered.

Lucy stepped away, heading out, but she paused at the door. Turning, she quietly said, "Sleep well, Desmond."

But Desmond was already asleep.

* * *

It was two hours later when Desmond jolted awake, sitting up and looking around. He didn't know what had woke him, though he did feel better than he had when Lucy had helped him to bed, and he took a moment to just sit and listen.

The door to his room let out a series of beeps and an armed guard came in with a dinner tray.

Ah, that was what woke Desmond. He'd felt someone else coming.

... Though Desmond didn't think his senses were ever that good.

He held up his hands, showing that he was being a good little prisoner and the guard put down the tray on the small glass desk by the door before backing out again. The door locked with its usual digital "ha-ha" and Desmond looked at his meal.

Clearly, Abstergo was minimalist when it came to food.

Still, he felt like he was starving and he dove in, eating neatly and swiftly.

So, what had he learned today: 1.) There were Those Who Came Before, whoever they were, and they left "gifts" that people had discovered and utilized to improve the world. 2.) The people who discovered these "gifts" were Templars, a.k.a. Abstergo, and they wanted to used these "gifts" to do something. 3.) What that something was, was a good ideal but the Templar/Abstergo method left a lot to be desired. 4.) A part of this whole aliens-lived-on-Earth-first theory was somehow buried in Altair's life and Desmond was still searching memories to get it. 5.) The Assassins that he had run away from knew he had been captured and were trying to rescue him. 5a.) That meant that he hadn't been as hidden from the Assassins as he had thought when he ran away, which meant that they, despite few numbers, had let him live his life. He didn't know what to feel about that. 5b.) His knowledge, or rather, Altair's was important enough that this whole Assassins-versus-Templars thing was still going on. 6.) ...

Oh shit.

The "gifts" of Those Who Came Before.

If that was technology, something that could make holograms or something, it would be viewed as magic in ancient times, the same way computers would be a miracle even a century ago. Some kind of alien technology.

Therefore... the Piece of Eden... the Apple was a leftover from Those Who Came Before.

_Dammit!_

Desmond needed to dawdle. He needed to dawdle as much as he could in those memories. Until the Assassin's rescued him or he escaped, or _something_ , because Abstergo - the Templars - could _not_ get that little "piece of silver".

Oh, today was just information overload.

And really, what science-fiction book or film did he get dropped in for this?

Desmond shuddered, but pushed away his dinner tray.

It was time for a little hacking.

Starting at Lucy's computer hooked up to the Animus, Desmond once more plowed through directories and files, determined to find a DOS or Terminal window to hand type a keylogger. He checked her email, by this point out of habit more than anything else, but there were no new emails. His eyes were burning, even after the nap - however long it had been - before the diner guard he was still exhausted, but he steadfastly ignored it.

As he had expected, there was nothing on Lucy's computer that he could use. Nodding, he turned around and moved up the steps to Vidic's computer. _His_ email was probably interesting, and there was a better chance that his computer was linked to the outside, separate from the Animus as it was. Desmond sat in the chair, infinitely more comfortable than the cushioned chairs by the Animus, and for a moment he just leaned back.

_God_ he was tired. Reliving so many assassinations - three? Four? In a row was more than his brain could apparently handle. The days were running together in his head, he couldn't really believe it was just this morning when Vidic had dropped the little hint about Those Who Came Before, whoever the hell they were, or pocketed the dick's pen. It felt like a lifetime ago... Desmond rubbed his eyes, his forehead, his face, slapping at his cheeks slightly to try and keep himself awake. The last thing he needed was for the old fart to see Desmond asleep at his desk. Yawning and rubbing his eyes again, he turned back to the bright glow of the screen.

The setup was almost exactly the same as the Animus computer. No DOS access, directories on P.O.E., files that were password encrypted, text editors, and email software, and that was it. Desmond used quite a few curse words as he clicked around the desktop. Maybe he could play freakin' _solitaire_ while waiting for his kidnappers to be done with him. Sighing, he leaned back and rubbed his face again, trying to stay awake. The computer was also on a closed LAN, no access to the outside that he cold find, and at this point he was getting more than slightly frustrated. He should have paid more attention in his computer lessons.

He clicked on the email software, interested in what the old fart got, but also wondering if he could compare the headers with the email on Lucy's computer, try to figure out what the root ISP was. If everything was local, maybe one of the other computers in the building was linked to the outside, and he could access that remotely...? It was more than a little outside his abilities, but he had to try.

Most of Vidic's email was news junk. One talked about hurricane season ending because there had been hurricanes on and off since last year, when Hurricane Irene - a storm the size of Europe - had devastated the northeastern United States by dropping over a foot of rain and breaking flooding records and cutting off entire towns from rescue, to say nothing of people being without power for over a week. That and the revelation that FEMA was almost out of money and was putting other projects on hold. Desmond snorted, wondering how the northeast took precedent over the Katrina and Missouri victims. Politics schmolitics. There was also a blurb about Eye-Abstergo, the telecommunications thing Lucy had hinted at earlier. It was still babble to him, other than gleaning that the launch date was around Christmas, it meant nothing. Oil drilling in Antarctica and naval destroyers in the area and other soundbites were in Vidic's email, but it told him nothing.

One thing he did find interesting was an email from a guy named Alan Rikken, the fabled head of Abstergo himself, voicing that Vidic had better shut Lucy up about her inquiries to Leila's death. Was that why he'd emailed Lucy to tell her to stop dipping into company ink?

Desmond turned away from the computer and put his head in his hands. He didn't have the patience for conspiracy shit like this. But then, this _was_ a company that believed in people, aliens, whatever, that Came Before, so who was he to argue?

He would have written it all off, his brain too tired and unable to accept everything he had been thrown at today when he happened to see and email from an unknown sender. Unknown sender? That meant someone on the outside was able to access the inside. He needed to study that. He opened the email.

_I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I SAW HIM. HE HAD A METAL BALL. IT OPENED. THEY WENT CRAZY. SHOOTING. STABBING. TORE EACH OTHER TO PIECES. I KNOW IT WAS YOU PEOPLE, SAW THE LOGO. HEARD THE NAME. I'M GOING TO TELL. ANYONE WHO WILL LISTEN. YOU'LL BE EXPOSED. THEY'LL KNOW THE TRUTH. AND THEN YOU WILL PAY. YOU CRAZY BASTARDS. YOU'LL PAY._

Whoa.

Shit.

Just... shit.

A metal ball... Just a piece of silver... With the power to control the hearts and minds of any who taste of it... What they were looking for...

Fuck.

Desmond's mind shut down. He couldn't handle it any more. Shakily, he somehow managed to close all the programs and turn off the computer. He got up and almost fell to his knees. His breath was coming out in short bursts, likely he was starting to hyperventilate, and he was certain he'd lost all color in his face. He nearly tripped on the stairs of the dais, just about staggered into his room. He had the vague memory of turning on the shower and standing under it for time indeterminate before slipping back into his jeans with pockets of pens and a scrap of paper with an access code, but it was all a fuzzy blur.

It wasn't true. None of it was true. It couldn't be. It couldn't. The Templar treasure, the thing Abstergo was looking for, the conspiracies...

Desmond had a troubled sleep.

* * *

_I've learned too much there's so much to pass on so much to tell but it has to stay hidden from all but those with VISION to see the TRUTH to see past the LIES and gaze into the ABYSS and SEE and UNDERSTAND and BLOOD runs deep and far and back in TIME and have to let the MEMORIES speak for themselves and hope he can find the ANSWERS before it's too late it's too late my time is coming but there still so much to say_

* * *

Desmond's eyes snapped open, colors filling his vision before it bled away. What was that...?

He rubbed his eyes, they burned less than they had the night before, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn't sleeping well. Funny how kidnapping did that to a guy. He took a deep breath and slid out of the covers, pulling the sweatshirt over his head and walking to the bathroom. His legs were sturdier than the night before, but when he looked in the mirror he saw the mess he was.

Vigorously, he splashed water on his face, running his hands through his short crop of hair to straighten it out even vaguely. The improvement was minimal but he wasn't going to fuss. When he stepped back out into his room, he saw the door open. No Vi _dick_ to brag at him first thing? He frowned, wary of the break in pattern.

But, true to form, Vidic and Lucy were in the main lab, the old fart up on his dais drinking coffee and Lucy once more tinkering at the computer. Another large breakfast was laid out by one of the chairs: two muffins, a bowl of cereal, a banana, and a large glass of juice.

Desmond offered a dry grin. "Missed you this morning, doc."

"Get in the Animus!" the old man snapped.

"Not before he eats," Lucy said, just as quickly if not as sharply. Desmond sat himself down and started to eat, quickly and cleanly. Nobody spoke, and after an ominous fifteen minutes eating Desmond decided to press.

"What? No conversation? No holier-than-thou lectures?"

"Lay down damn it!" Vidic hissed, turning away from the window and glaring. Desmond held in a startle when he realized there were bags under the old man's eyes. _He_ hadn't been sleeping, it seemed, meaning he was stressed from that phone call. Perhaps he could... but no, trying to goad the doctor would likely only make things worse, and Desmond wasn't going to risk it. He glanced at Lucy, and the hot blond looked as stressed as Vidic. She looked up at him and gave a pleading look, as if to say _not now_.

He nodded, and hopped up onto the Animus table, shimmying to the right position and laying back. As the screen slid over his face he could feel the vibration, the heat, and the pressure at the back of his skull and along his spine...

And then he was standing in the loading screen, white fog and bits of code flying about. He checked Altair's weapons, pulling out both the cutlass and sword, checking the hidden blade and the counting out every knife he had. He wanted to practice the moves he saw, his body (his mind?) was twitching for it, but he knew Vi _dick_ was watching and he didn't want to show off what he might and might not know. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to just experiment in the Animus, push himself and find his limits, but that could never be here, and so he sighed and waited to be dropped in Masyaf.

The small mountain village loaded in the construct, and Desmond frowned as the NPCs started walked around him. He had been loaded into the middle of the town, and he looked around, trying to assess his options on how to dawdle. As he walked down the mountain to the horses, he tried to think about his options, but invariably his mind went to his discoveries from yesterday, the giant information dump that had sent him tail spinning into the Twilight Zone.

Of the long list of things that he learned, the only thing he believed in was the Piece of Eden, the little silver ball that one-eyed old man Al Mualim had. He believed it only because he saw it; or rather, Altair saw it. The things it was supposed to do, the "people" who were supposed to have left it, Desmond decided it was all cockamamie bullshit. Everyone around him was just crazy, including the old fart Vidic and the old fart Al Mualim. The fact that they believed it, however, meant that they were dead serious, and so he had to pretend it was all true, too. If they were looking for the little silver ball, though, it was pretty clear it was in Masyaf, though he probably _shouldn't_ let on that he knew that. That meant carrying on with the memories and pretending he was clueless.

Since he was clueless on damn near everything else, it wouldn't take much to do.

As he finally made it to the stables, he mounted the white Arabian and began his ride to the kingdom. When the white fog dissipated and he looked to see he was in the lower valley. The watch tower Altair and Malik had climbed when they were seven loomed over him, and he had an idea.

"Hey, Lucy, you said my synchronization increased when I climbed watchtowers, right?"

_"Right."_

Desmond smirked.

There were, he discovered, a total of twelve watchtowers in the kingdom, and he spent as much time as he could finding and climbing them. Even the grizzled old doc couldn't complain, because it increased his synch ratio, and Desmond rode all around the construct. The locations were starting to look familiar to him, now, and he began to understand how the construct had worked. Altair knew the Middle East like the back of his hand, but that didn't mean he had every nook and corner committed to memory. The city Desmond lived in before he had been kidnapped he knew like the back of his hand, but in the same way he couldn't picture his way to work and remember every building and every streetlamp on the way, Altair could not be expected to know every blade of grass and piece of rock of the Holy Land. What the construct did was string together the places that Altair remembered the most - places he would make camp in or trails he frequented more than others or major landmarks one used to mark distance. That was likely why everything was in the wrong place; the construct was trying to compensate for the gaps in memory.

Over his travel across the "kingdom," Desmond saw afterimages of Altair all throughout his apprenticeship and journeyman stages of life: the time when he was traveling to Jerusalem and excited about the opportunity to learn his craft, off to Acre and wondering what the port city was like, acting as a messenger and looking for the man he was supposed to deliver a letter to. Altair had been an excited, impatient teenager with a frightening amount of ability and a steely determination to be the best - to prove himself to those who considered him a bastard half breed and show Malik he could excel without being quite so smart in the sciences. He saw Altair later in life, too, sitting on a watchtower and mourning the loss of Adha, wondering where she was and aching that he had failed, determined to be even better, cursing everything around him and clinging to Al Mualim's teachings to keep himself sane and release the anger he felt.

Altair... Desmond was starting to understand him, a little. His ancestor was scary, in some ways, in his sheer ability and in his cold hearted, casual view of death. His near absolute silence and reticence to everyone around him was off-putting, but living in his head... Desmond was learning a lot.

_"Will you EVER get around to triggering the damn memory?"_ Vidic demanded.

"How much has my synch ratio gone up?" Desmond asked, not for the first time as he climbed his horse again after climbing out of a hay cart.

_"Another three bars,"_ Lucy replied. _"Why are the watchtowers increasing your synch ratio? Do you know?"_

Desmond hesitated a moment before saying, "No idea." He didn't want to lie to Lucy, but he didn't want to tell her when the doc was listening in. "Are there any more towers left?"

_"No, not according to the Animus."_

Desmond nodded, and without looking at the map - no longer needing it and its undefined outlines - and rode north, up a mountain trail Altair used when he had been avoiding the armies on his way south. Exiting into the small village - he still didn't know its name but felt he should by this point, he turned east and confidently rode his proud white Arabian up the main road, passing citizens as they walked about their business. The massive Saracen camp outside of Damascus was still there, but Desmond felt that was yet another limit on the construct, they were long gone from the market capitol, rushing south to prevent Richard's march to Jaffa. Salah ad-Din was already ahead, likely at Arsuf by this point, making preparations and scouting for preferred location for battle.

It wasn't until much, much later that Desmond would wonder how he knew all of that.

He entered the city through the construct-made scholars, four men in white who didn't look anything _like_ scholars other than their color, and quickly left them traveling down the main thoroughfare and listening to the poor district's cries for business. It wasn't until the road at last narrowed that he paused, trying to remember where he should go.

Frowning, he grit his teeth and said, "Map, Damascus." Checking the map, he nodded and climbed up to the roofs. The poor district never lifted itself more than three stories, and he could easily see the brass or bronze dome of the Bureau lifting above the string of houses. He made his way over, jumping small alleys and walking along narrow wooden beams, conscious of the sky and its eyes and trying to look like he was a total newbie.

Desmond hopped onto the roof and then calmly le _apt down into the Bureau, leery of the rafiq._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... is it bad to admit that after finishing the game we started up a new file and are playing ACR again? Er, never mind...
> 
> Abbas shows up again in this chapter, given his role in the expanded universe, one can't not include him, and when I proofed this before posting it I made a few minor (very, very minor) changes to compensate for what we learned in Revelations. Don't know if this will hold up or not, and we certainly can't fix everything that contradicts of ignores Revelations, but please know that we do try.
> 
> And at last we get the (an?) explanation on why the little Piece of Eden is called the Apple from ACII onward. Look up Eris and you'll realize Al Mualim is talking about the Golden Apple of Discord, and the Adam and Eve are obviously talking about the Forbidden Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge: the Apple of Eden. Shame on us gamers that didn't know all this until we researched it for writing this fic. We need to look up these things more often...
> 
> Also, we hope Desmond's mental shutdown makes sense. It had to happen eventually, you don't get an info dump like that and not shut down as a result. In combination with his extended time in the Animus and the first signs of the Bleeding Effect starting to happen (and did any of you pick up on it?), well, his mind had to do something to protect itself. We like Desmond, but he just doesn't have the badass experience like Altair and later Ezio to handle these kinds of faith-shattering revelations.
> 
> And we managed to sneak in a possible explanation for the cruddy world-map. Had to try.
> 
> Next chapter: Zamil makes another appearance. Come on, we all love Zamil, don't we?


	17. Corrupt Scholars

It was nighttime when Altair finally arrived at the Bureau. He dropped through the roof with a heavy thud, having spent the entire day on horseback and just wanting some sleep. Al Mualim had stressed that whatever Jubair Al Hakim was doing was getting worse by the day and Altair had pushed his horse to get here as quickly as possible. He was ready to greet Ibtisam and then be on his way to some sky garden or haystack to catch some sleep.

A young apprentice was at the counter, sleepily trying to read something when Altair entered.

In fact, Altair recognized the young apprentice, Aamil.

"Ah, Master Altair!" Aamil blinked, surprised. It appeared he was on duty that night while Ibtisam slept. "I'll go get the _rafiq_."

Altair shook his head. "He rests. Let him. I will still be here in the morning." Because those cushions in the courtyard were looking very inviting.

"No," Aamil shook his head. "Ibtisam always greets any who come in at night." With that he scampered off.

Altair let out a sigh, then a yawn, and scrubbed his face in an attempt to wake up further. Ibtisam's sharp tongue needed him to be awake enough to deal with it.

The _rafiq_ came in, scraggly looking and hurriedly dressed, but with a wide smile. "Ah, it's the hero of Damascus! Come in, stay a while! Tell me all about your adventures."

It was, perhaps, the warmest greeting Altair had ever gotten from the Damascus _rafiq_. But knowing the usual sarcasm and insulting wit, he doubted the sincerity. He just wanted to report in and be on his way so that he may sleep before investigating. "I'm afraid I don't have the time," he replied.

"I see," Ibtisam replied, his face blank. "You're too important for me now."

Altair regretted his words instantly, and rubbed at his face again, biting back another yawn. "It's not that..." he replied, trying to get his meaning across.

"No, no, of course not," Ibtisam agreed, his voice light. "How may I serve you?"

Altair paused.

No biting rhetoric? No veiled insults?

Had his last mission actually _changed_ the _rafiq_ 's mind about him?

Altair doubted it. He was just too tired to think about it.

"Al Mualim has asked that I take the life of the one they call Jubair."

"Ah, Salah ad-Din's chief scholar, strange choice of target, in my opinion," Ibtisam rubbed his beard, clearly trying to catch up in wakefulness just as Altair clung to it. The _rafiq_ shrugged. "But who are we to question the Master's will? I'm sure he has his reasons."

Altair frowned. He questioned those reasons. But he knew that he would learn as he investigated, as he would learn as Jubair died by his blade. He would learn when he asked questions of Al Mualim. Altair could not understand how Ibtisam just quietly accepted Al Mualim's will without such questions.

He shook his head. He really needed sleep. Such thoughts would not help him at this moment. "Then you are familiar with the man."

Ibtisam nodded. "He's been quite busy these past few days, organizing the scholars and sending them into the streets to preach."

"What do they speak of?"

"Light and fire. Cleansing sin. Apocalyptic nonsense, if you ask me. All this talk of paths and a New World."

New World?

Others Altair had slain had made reference to this. Just what was it? He crossed his arms and looked down, trying to dredge up the memories through his fatigue. "What about this 'New World'?"

Ibtisam shrugged. "Couldn't say. I don't pay attention to the ramblings of madmen. Much too busy with _real_ work."

Altair's frown deepened. It was the ramblings of madmen that had given him information about the Templars and their plans. Madmen like Majd Addin, Abu'l Nuquod, and those who worked for them. All words, be they mad or not, needed to be heard and assessed for value. Even madness might have a grain of truth in it.

"Very well," Altair nodded. "I'll walk among the people. See what I can learn. Where would you suggest I search?"

"South of here you will find an academy and a guard tower. They're both good places to search. There is also a hospital to the east you might want to visit."

With a final nod, Altair turned to the courtyard. "I'll begin at once."

"So eager!" Ibtisam replied. "You've certainly changed. And for the better, I might add."

Altair looked at the open lattice and started to climb.

"Ah, but then the arrogance returns," Ibtisam said from inside. "The whole of Damascus watches for you and you still won't sleep in the Bureau, the only building in the whole city where you will be safe."

Altair dropped back down and stood in the doorway. "Is it too much to ask for you to speak plainly? You speak in light tones to hide insults and reprimands. You tell me what to do within words of how the others at this Bureau see me, despite my many protests that I care not what others think, while claiming you defend me. I am clearly unwelcome here, yet you insist I stay."

A traitorous yawn escaped.

"As _rafiq_ , I will always do as you say. But knowing what you are saying can be difficu-" Altair stopped. He would never admit a weakness, so he bit down his words, cursed his tiredness, and let out a long sigh.

Ibtisam stared at him for a long moment. Finally he ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "Malik had said you were always good with words. It appears your wit was not what he meant."

"Malik had a gift for sciences. I for languages," Altair shrugged. "How many of the apprentices here could go to a Christian city like Acre and be able to learn information in European tongues?" Altair shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said tiredly. "I'll be in a sky garden close by."

He turned to leave once more, but Ibtisam held his shoulder. "No, Altair. You sleep in the Bureau. Many saw you slay the Merchant King and your description circulates despite our efforts. You _will_ stay."

Altair merely nodded and headed to the cushions, ready for true rest before beginning his search for the scholar Jubair.

He awoke far earlier than he would have liked. It was just before sunrise and _Fajr_ prayers and the assassins of the Bureau that had covers were up and leaving to get to their jobs. They all talked and compared notes, chatting amicably as they left either through the courtyard where Altair could no longer sleep or the hidden door to the pottery shop in the adjoining building.

Altair's eyes were still burning with fatigue, but he rose with the others, nodded to Ibtisam, and left in the dark pre-dawn. He scouted around for a sky garden, then settled in for more sleep.

It wasn't until mid morning that Altair awoke, sweat already dripping down his face as the summer's heat continued to rise with the sun. Still, he felt better for the rest and it was time for investigations. He knew Al Mualim had said there was an urgency here in Damascus that preceded the Templar in Acre, but the Master had not said what.

Altair checked around the sky garden and found no immediate guards nearby, so he swiftly stepped out and found a ladder down to the streets below. He headed south, intent on finding the academy or guard tower that the _rafiq_ had spoken of.

The streets narrowed the further he went, becoming more packed with people rushing about from place to place. Patrols stuck to squads of six, plus captain, all marching along with swords drawn.

On alert indeed.

Altair kept his hands clasped in prayer and silent contemplation, moving at a slow gate of one deep in thought. The people talked of knowledge, the end of the world, of books and texts, be it listed as poison or defended, and Altair wondered what sort of rhetoric that the scholar Jubair was listing that started debates of simple written words.

He edged along an open square when his ears picked up an interesting conversation.

**"** Please I must go," a dark skinned man was saying, "this letter must be delivered and I cannot risk upsetting him."

"Listen to yourself!" replied a heavy, bearded man. "You are his puppet! Give up this task, and join up with us in our fight."

It appeared that the people did not care for their scholar. It was good that Altair was there.

"No!" the dark man replied, stepping back. "I've a wife and child to think of."

"Which is exactly why I've come to you," the heavy man persisted. "Is this the kind of world you want your son brought up in?"

"It will pass. If we just wait, maybe he'll stop, and everything will go back to normal."

Altair shook his head. Madmen only ever stopped when someone _stopped_ them.

"Everyday, more is lost and no way to reclaim what's been taken," the heavy man pleaded. "There will _be_ no going back. You know this to be true!"

"Enough! I am leaving." The dark man walked away, glancing hesitantly back, before striding away more decisively.

"Bah!" the heavy man shouted. "When it is gone and nothing remains, _then_ you will listen."

Altair tailed after the dark-skinned man. He hid in cowardice and ignorance, thinking that hard times passed if one did nothing. Altair could never understand such thinking. If there was a problem, one should work to solve it. Waiting for others to do something merely prolonged the problem. Even if attempts to solve it made things worse, at least something was being done.

So Altair lifted the letter the dark-skinned man needed to deliver, and rested on a bench in the shade, sipping his waterskin as he read.

_Master:_

_We are close now. Soon the entire city will be purged. Every day, more are illuminated and come over to our cause._

_Should you have further orders, send them to the Madrasah Al-Kallasah. It is here that I now reside, surrounded by my most loyal men. I suspect the Assassin comes for me, as he has the others. I do not fear death at his hands. Only let him wait until our work is finished._

_I will continue to keep you informed of my progress._

_May the Father of Understanding Guide you,_

_J_

Purged? Just what was Jubair purging the city _of_? Apparently Jubair's speakers were convincing, as they "illuminated" other citizens. More likely scared them into complying. If only the letter explained more.

Still, Altair had a place to look to. The university, _Madrasah Al-Kallasah_ was where his target was hiding. It would be a good place to find him when it was time to kill him. But for now, Altair needed more information.

He also couldn't quite stop the smirk at how Jubair knew he was coming.

_Good_.

Time to get more information.

Altair put the letter in his pocket and continued walking through the streets in "humble prayer" and even joined others in _Durh_ prayer to maintain his façade. Whenever a patrol started looking to closely at him, he struck up conversation with someone he was walking beside, putting on the part of a scholar recently moved to Damascus and interested in learning of the city, so much larger than the tiny village he grew up in.

Lunch was light and mostly the trail mix he had brought with him, so that he kept on the move and didn't linger anywhere too long.

The flow of the crowds started to drag him east. People in the packed streets remained in heated debate over whatever it was Jubair was preaching. The press of people and the bright hot sun made tempers tend to flare and the patrols frequenting the streets often had to stop and break up a squabble going on, which always provided a good distraction for Altair to disappear further into the crowds.

He was nearing the southeast corner of the city when trouble finally found him.

A solitary guard was standing watch and Altair was giving him a wide berth, easier with the thinner crowds in the area. However, a homeless degenerate, bare-chested and gurgling nonsense suddenly tensed took a step to Altair and shoved him.

Altair had not been expecting it, and though he caught his balance quickly and split the difference between the degenerate and the guard, it was too late. Attention had been drawn.

"Hey," the guard called as he walked past. "You look familiar."

So Altair decided it was time to switch languages. Since Damascus spoke Arabic, primarily, he slipped easily into a Turkish accent. "Oh?" he questioned, thickening his accent and pronouncing the Turkish vowels with the fluency of a native. "You speak to me? I'm from here not," he replied in poor grammar. "Large city, yes? I no see one so large before. Many... ah, what word... spires. Tell, how you build?"

The guard just shook his head. "Move along."

Altair nodded, slipping away, but he entered a courtyard to sit for a while. Guard changes would be soon for _Asr_ prayer. He'd be back on the streets then. In the meantime, he struck up conversation again, this time with a woman beside him on bench, holding a baby and with a toddler at her knees. She was polite enough until Altair picked up the toddler and let the child poke and prod him as any curious child would. Then she was far more friendly.

Much as he did with Nuzhat in Masyaf, he played too fast to catch with his hands, keeping the toddler out of trouble yet still entertained. He made cloth appear and disappear, as he often needed to with knives, and the child laughed and clapped while the mother and he talked of Damascus and how it had changed since this Crusade had started.

Out of the corner of Altair's eye, he saw the gray robes of assistants walk in. A quick question of how the mother and her husband met sent her on a tale of their courtship and gave Altair a chance to listen.

"I wish to see him! Hear him speak," the first assistant said.

"Then you must be careful," the second replied. "There are still those who reject illumination. They would harm him."

Illumination? That sounded like the letter from Jubair.

"Then they are ignorant and afraid," the first scoffed.

"You seem sincere, but how do I know I can trust you?"

It would seem Jubair's precautions were spreading to his underlings.

"It hurts me to even _hear_ you ask the question," the first assistant shook his head.

"Very well, then," the second said reluctantly. "We gather each day in the _Madrasah_. He comes to speak and then leads it into the city that we might cleanse it."

That would be Altair's next stop then.

"Could I join you then?"

"Understand that it is a difficult path we walk. Our work demands sacrifice."

"I understand."

"Then come and meet with us. Let us see how strong you really are."

Altair stayed playing with the toddler and mother, who was hugging the baby close.

As the afternoon sun bore down harder than ever, Altair offered an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I must take my leave. I was hoping to visit a _madrasah_ here and learn how it is run in such a large city."

The mother stood as well, holding the toddler's hand, her eyebrows furrowed. "You are a good man," she said softly. "The _madrasah_ here is..." she looked down. "Be careful."

Altair gave a soft smile. "Safety and peace to you," he said quietly.

She blinked, but nodded. "To you as well, I suppose."

Altair slipped out to the lengthening afternoon shadows.

The _madrasah_ was a large building, almost as large as the hospital the assassin passed on his way there. The main entrance seemed to be on the east wall, two rows of trees reaching dozens of feet up - a testament to how old the university was - that lined a moderate plaza and fountains. A professor stood at the gates, speaking to the public, and Altair heard Jubair's name mentioned with some frequency. He would check back later, as the crowds thinned for evening prayer. Passing by, he walked along the street of the south wall, eyeing the guards. They eyed him back, hands at their swords, and murmuring to each other. One stepped forward.

"You, scholar, do not look like one of ours," he said in low, menacing tones.

Altair thought quickly. "That would be because I am not," he answered, "I am from Alep. Is there a problem?"

"What business do you have here?"

"I am visiting family. My niece was born recently and I've come to see her."

"I don't care about that. Why are you _here_ , at the _madrasah_?"

Altair put on a show of rubbing his face, as though the man had asked a simple question. "Because it is on my way," he said, not needing to fake the impatience. "My family lives near _souk Sarouja_ and this road is the takes me there. Is there a problem with that?"

The guard frowned, but backed down. Altair continued walking down the street, his pace determined, and turned southwest on a wider road. Once he no longer felt eyes upon him, he ducked into a narrow, dark alley. The streets were proving most troublesome, and so he looked up. There were several crossbeams above him, and with a jump he was on them and hopping his way across the alley until he found an upper story nook with a ladder. He took it and was at last on the roofs, and he leapt over the narrow alley and crossed to the other side of the roof to see where he was in relation to the _madrasah_.

He got a good look at the western wall of the university, and he was high enough that a leap would get him onto the roof of the building. The light was too poor to explore further, and _Maghrib_ prayers would be almost upon him. Altair made his way down to the streets again, walking along the north wall of the _madrasah_ and turning south once he cleared it, hoping that the professor was preaching to the crowd.

He was.

"Though our fathers dwelled in darkness and their fathers before them, it does not mean _we_ must as well! This is our chance to begin anew, let Jubair lead you to revelation! Let him lead you to the light!" Apocalyptic nonsense indeed, Altair could see Ibtisam's contempt for the rhetoric, but the assassin was determined to learn what he could. "Once he was a teacher, a false prophet of their lies. But then the way was made clear to Jubair. He saw what _must_ be done, understood it fell to him, having learned the truth to spread it. And he was shown the way, so was I, and _I_ will show _you_ as well. Jubair sees things the way they truly are! Sees the poison you carry in your hearts and minds! He _works_ to cast it out! Remove all texts from your homes and schools give them to us! They must be _destroyed_!"

Altair openly balked. Destroy books? A _scholar_ wished to destroy _books_? That... it... There were no words! Energy pulsed in Altair's veins, bloodlust mixing into his shock and demanding he run up to show the professor an opposing point of view, but he quickly grabbed the thoughts and worked through them, his golden eyes taking in the six armored city guards on either side of the plaza, watching for any trouble to be had. Grinding his teach, he waited, watched the man as he finished lecturing about light and fire, before turning north and then west, working his way through the narrow street Altair had just traveled. The crowds had thinned with the setting sun, prayers would start soon, and the assassin could not wait for everyone to disappear before the preacher entered a mosque.

Taking a calculated risk, the assassin darted up behind the man and threw a vicious kick to his back, sending him stumbling forward.

"Hey, that man just kicked the professor!"

"We have to help him!"

"I'll teach you to pick a fight!"

Suddenly three young men, perhaps Halim's age, darted up and tried to throw punches at him. The professor stood there, watching the fight. Altair ducked under one swing, wild and poorly thrown before landing a punch to a different assailant, the boy stumbling backward. The third managed to duck one of the assassin's punches, but he was not experienced enough to dodge the follow up kick. None of them had proper training, and the only advantage they had was numbers. Altair broke one wrist and knocked out two teeth before he was done with the children, and they all lay in a heap on the ground, groaning.

He advanced on the professor.

"Violence is _not_ the answer, my child!"

"In this we agree," Altair said, his words surprising the speaker. "So speak and I may stay my blade. What is it your master intends? Why destroy all this knowledge?"

The question seemed to be one the professor had been asked several times. His answer was quick, almost automatic: "We lay the stonework to build a road upon which, soon all men will travel. It leads to a better tomorrow."

Altair snorted. "That is not what I see."

"Then you are blind," the professor said, as if it were obvious. "The words upon these parchments, they are poison. Jubair holds the cure," he said, reverence in his voice. "He'll free us from their lies!"

"It's nonsense you speak," Altair said. He was aghast that one - a university professor no less - could so easily believe that books should be destroyed, that they held poison. How could Jubair create such sophistry? How could other even _believe_ it? There was only one explanation: "You've lost your mind."

"No!" the man protested, "Not lost, but found! I see the world for what it truly is! He has shown me so much; I am illuminated."

"Fanatic is all you are. And you are dangerous for it." Blind faith... Altair had learned his lesson from it; blind faith in his abilities, blind faith in his own opinion, they lead to downfall, and worse, blind faith made men blind even to the fact that they had fallen. Altair had almost lost everything from his own blind faith, and he would not suffer it again. From anyone.

The speaker saw the intent in Altair's eyes, and he stood to his full height, looking proud and brave. And foolish. "Do what you must. It changes nothing. We are not afraid."

For this, at least, Altair had a simple answer.

"You should be."

The blade rammed deep into the man's abdomen, and Altair saw his eyes widen in absolute shock. "You..." he gurgled, "You really... But I..."

Altair released his blade, cleaning it on his red sash before darting further down the street and looking for an alley to duck into. He understood now why Al Mualim had insisted he come here first; he wondered dimly how many books had already been destroyed, what rare texts were now lost to antiquity. He shook his head, alarmed at the thought.

Evening prayer was in full swing, and Altair quickly made his way to the rooftops, a white shadow leaping from one roof to the next, working north and then west, back to the Bureau. Jubair worked in the _Madrasah Al-Kallasah_ , and often walked out to preach to the people, no doubt with his other scholars and professors. If he missed his chance at the _madrasah_ , he needed to narrow down the number of places to look. He did not want another extended chase through the streets like with Talal, nor did he want to involve other people like with Abu'l Nuquod, or Majd Addin. He also needed a detailed map of the city, to know the quickest routes to certain locations or how to head off someone if there was a chase. He needed to be a master of his environment, and not knowing the city made that difficult.

He paused on the Bureau's roof, wondering when he had started to think like Malik. The thought twisted something inside him, and he worked through it with difficulty before hopping down. The inner room was full of apprentices and journeymen. Altair surveyed them from the doorway, but he caught no sight of Zamil, and the thought of interacting with others that still hated him held no appeal. Instead, he sat down in the courtyard, letting the rapidly cooling air brush against him and lull him into a light sleep.

Fajr prayers, or rather the commute to them, once more woke Altair as the other assassins made their way out the Bureau. He lingered inside, not having the patience for faking prayers, and instead refilled his waterskin and his bag of trail mix. He went inside to ask for a map when he heard the dull thud of someone coming in. He turned.

"Altair my friend!" Zamil said in expansive tones. "I had not expected to see you again quite so soon. You have become quite the wanted man I hear, as am I."

Altair stiffened. "Have you been compromised?"

"No, no," the journeyman said, waving a hand, "but with all the assignments we've been carrying out here it's time for rotation. I must prepare my family for the trip back to the safety of Masyaf this afternoon."

Altair remembered their last conversation. "And your wife? Has she learned of the Order?"

"I had to explain it last week," Zamil said, rubbing the back of his head. "You should have heard her - I think it's the first time I've ever heard her scream, and believe me I do not wish to go through it again. And before you ask, no, she wasn't mad about my being an _assassyun_ , she was mad about it taking so long for me to tell her. She went on for hours about how relationships are built on trust and that trust is built on honesty and honesty is built on integrity. She actually threatened to go back to her father! I was beside myself." The two walked deeper into the Bureau, an apprentice at the desk and already pulling out a piece of parchment and handing it to the journeyman. "And then little A'shadieeyah started to cry and cry. It was everything we could do to quiet her! Aaqilah and I were much quieter after that, as you can imagine!"

The journeyman scanned his list and his wince could be seen under his _tagelmust_.

"Trouble?" Altair asked.

"No, annoyance. I have one more mission before I'm free to go, but Aaqilah and I are still closing up shop and preparing to leave. There is much to do, and I do not know how I can get it all done." Then his eyes widened as a thought struck him. "Altair, could you finish my last assignment in exchange for information? Some men must be eliminated in Jubair's quarter."

"That is perfect," Altair said. "My next feather is for the scholar, thinning his ranks will be to my advantage."

"Then we've a deal!" Zamil said brightly. "My caravan leaves this afternoon, at the Bab al-Saghir. Be fast, my friend."

"I will. Safety and peace."

"Until later then. Safety and peace."

Zamil was quick to depart and Altair flicked his eyes to the document. Five men were to be eliminated, Jubair's men that frequented the _madrasah_ , as one could expect. Their descriptions and names were listed, and the assassin quickly memorized them, noting specific characteristics before he darted up the courtyard wall and to the roofs of the city. With the map he had taken and staying to the roofline, he made much better time to the _madrasah_ , and it wasn't long before he dropped down to the streets to begin looking for his targets.

They were all city guards, not associated with any patrols, and so as Altair landed in a small plaza with a fountain, he kept his eye out for lone guards making their rounds. He opened his mind to the eagle inside him and asked for hi _s help I really want to learn how to do thi_ s and began pacing the streets. North of the small square, listening to a public speaker was his first target.

"I stand before you to deliver a warning! Should Richard take Jaffa, there will be _no_ stopping him! He will march on Jerusalem next! We must end this, before it has a chance to begin. That city is ours! Has always been ours! And it is our duty to defend it until death. The Crusaders must be destroyed!" Invisible in the crowd, the assassin finally made his way up to the target and plunged his hidden blade deep into the man's back, between ribs and up through his diaphragm and into his lung. He began pushing his way out of the crowds as the speaker continued his rhetoric. "Curse him! Curse the Christian King and his army of infidels! They go against the will of God and must be made to pay! Everywhere they ride, they leave only suffering in their wake. They say it is a Crusade. A Crusade for what? Ignorance? Violence? Madness. We must resist! We must fight them in any way we can."

Altair made his way south, climbing a ladder quickly for a simple disappearance. When his head crested the roof he saw another city guard. He ducked back down, not wishing to be seen. Wait... the scar on the hand... He looked again and realized this was another target. What luck! Altair waited for the guard to turn his back before finishing his climb to the roof. His feet were nearly silent as he ran up to the man, hidden blade flashing in the sunlight as he took an impressive leap, his body weight slamming into the guard as his blade sank deep into the man's neck, reading a bloody but silent assassination.

He took to the streets again after that, weaving his way through beggars and degenerates both, the former whining, "Please, sir. I'm so hungry, just a little money I beg of you. No, _you_ don't understand, I'm poor and sick and hungry!" and the latter giving deep, guttural grunts and foamed cries. He exited an alley - clumsily as one degenerate shoved him, to find one of the more persistent beggars had returned to accost him.

"Please, sir!"

Without a word he gently pushed her aside. She kept at it, however. "Don't you have _any_ money? My family's sick an dying, can't you spare just a _few_ coins?"

He shook his head silently, ducking into a courtyard and sitting down, trying to avoid her. She wouldn't enter, standing in the doorway and staring hard eyes, but Altair dutifully kept his head down, ignoring her. She eventually got the message. He waited an hour just to be on the safe side.

It was midmorning now, and as he got up to leave a city guard entered, one Altair recognized as one of the targets. The assassin calmly walked up and stabbed the man, letting him stumble further into the courtyard and making it look like they simply bumped into each other. He heard a few cries as others saw the body fall, and the assassin put a little speed in his steps, disappearing into a main street.

The _madrasah_ rose before him, he was along the south wall he had reconnoitered before. He leaned against a wall and watched the crowds, just out of site of two city guards that were talking to each other at their post. The topic of conversation was book burning and the mixed reactions it brought - to be expected at the epicenter of the event. None would say were it was taking place, however, and Altair hoped he would not have to scour the city. No sooner had he thought that than another target walked by him, not even giving him a second glance.

Altair pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against and followed, weary of the guards he passed and looking for a better place to perform the assassination. To his frustration, the guard moved into the eastern plaza of the _madrasah_ , where there were even more guards. Altair pressed his lips into a thin line as he continued to follow, looking for a less watched location.

After an hour of following his circuit, however, the guard never left the eyes of the other guards, and the assassin was becoming quite frustrated. At last, however, his patience was rewarded, as he saw a troupe of scholars approach. Altair waited until he was past the latest pair of guards and quickly darted up, stabbing the man in the back, before joining the half dozen scholars and striking up conversation.

"Hello, friends; how are things in this city?"

"A far cry better than wherever you are from, it seems," one of them said. "I've never seen a scholar so well armed."

Altair looked at his sword and short sword, both painfully visible, and the throwing knives that could be seen on closer inspection. He thought quickly. "I've just come from Jerusalem. There are two armies between there and here, and I fear for my life more than a little."

"Yes, I can understand that," a second man said. He gestured to the sword he, too, was carrying. "It's a sad day indeed when those least able to use a sword feel the need to carry it. But the mere presence of it seems to ferry off the worst of offenders."

"That's because all know how terrible you are with a sword," a third said, "One swing and everyone would be dead, including yourself. They do not wish to risk the embarrassment."

All six scholars laughed, and Altair disappeared from their ranks, now well away from the body. He had only one more target, he hoped the man would not be difficult to find.

The last was in the very narrow north alley of the _madrasah_ , there were no guards to speak of, and Altair killed him with silent skill, once more walking away as if nothing had happened.

Even with the map of the city, it took another hour for Altair to make his way into the rich _Sarouja_ district and find Abu'l Nuquod's former palace. It was late morning. He knocked on the door near there, where he had first met Zamil on that assignment, and waited.

"Ah, Altair!" Zamil said in a grandiose voice. "It's good to see you back so quickly and in one piece!"

"Who is it?" someone, a woman, asked from deeper in the house.

"An old friend of mine!" the journeyman said expansively. "I mentioned him before! Come and meet him! Do come in, Altair, we've just finished packing, and we must move our things to the caravan at the Small Gate. A'shadieeyah is asleep so we have some peace."

"Zamil?" A small woman, her face covered with a _hijab_ , stepped into view. Her eyes were stunning.

"Ah, Aaqilah, allow me to introduce you to Altair ibn La-Ahad. We went through our apprenticeship together, but he is far more skilled than I, and made master much sooner. Altair, this is my wife, Aaqilah, the most beautiful woman in the world! Well, excusing A'shadieeyah of course, but she's not old enough for others to realize it."

Stunning eyes narrowed. "You knew my husband as a journeyman?" she asked.

Altair nodded.

"Then you have heard of Masyaf?"

"It is home," Altair said slowly, not liking the suspicion in her voice.

"Good, then you can tell me just what I'm leaving Damascus for," she said, sniffing at Zamil. "All my _husband_ will tell me is that it is safe place, and I question his integrity because it took so long to let me know just how the two of you know each other."

Zamil flustered, wide-eyed and embarrassed, sputtering as Altair frowned and tried to come up with an adequate answer.

"It is a small village," he said, "Smaller than Damascus, certainly, at the base of a mountain. It is not rich, but it is not poor, and it has clean water from winter's runoff. Everyone there is of the Order, and we all protect each other. The Master is there, and he is a wise and learned man."

"Will A'shadieeyah be taken by him when she is old enough?" she asked, ice in her voice.

"... There are a few women _assassyun_ , if that's what you are asking," Altair said slowly, uncertain just what the woman was looking for, "And some volunteer to work in the gardens to console brothers who are suffering, but all come because they choose to. There are several children who decide to work in other fields, and more than a few who have no heritage with the Order who join because they want to. It is about choice. Everything we do is about choice."

Something he said must have been correct, because the narrow, assessing eyes suddenly became much warmer, returning to their stunning beauty and a smile could be seen under her scarf. "Excellent," she said, clapping her hands together in satisfaction. "It sounds like a beautiful place to raise a child, and I couldn't have asked for more. Were that my husband had been so honest with me when we met," she added, an icy gaze flicking to the white-faced Zamil. "But I guess that was his 'choice', too." Her eyes warmed. "I've still one last pack to fill, I'll be right back."

She turned and left the two men.

Zamil turned confused eyes to Altair. "I don't know what you said to her," he said, awe-struck. "I was right _here_ and I don't know what you said to appease her anger with me! What did you do?"

Altair shook his head. He had no idea.

They worked up and through _Duhr_ prayers to get everything assembled: two packs of clothes (mostly Aaqilah's), one chest of lamps and trinkets and toys for the newborn A'shadieeyah, and a pack of papers for the spice business they were going to set up. Zamil explained as Altair helped that Aaqilah would run the establishment when he was off on other missions, and when the affable journeyman's wife heard this she stopped wholesale and stared at him, unbelieving. It took several attempts to get her to believe that she would be _allowed_ to manage the finances and stores and deal with customers, let alone be _in charge_ of it.

When it finally sank in, however, her eyes once more became stunning.

"You can see why I married her," Zamil said as he lugged the chest down the streets. Aaqilah held her daughter close, one of the packs tied to her back while Altair held the rest. "She will be much better for the business than I, her mind for numbers is much sharper than mine."

"Between her mind and your presence with people, I suspect it will be a booming business," Altair said, looking on at the mother as she played with her daughter. Those eyes... they looked like Adha, a little, and Altair imagined what could have been. It hurt, in some ways, but seeing his friend Zamil so _happy_... it made him smile, too.

They arrived at the Small Gate, Bab al-Sahir, and Zamil's wife quickly turned into a quiet, almost timid woman, eyeing the men that were loading the wagon wearily, holding A'shadieeyah close. Altair remembered Zamil saying something about his wife being shy, and he nodded to himself. He kept back, watching the two interact, as the caravan was loaded. Would his life have looked like that? Once, perhaps, but not now. He would never have that kind of intimacy, not after Adha. But, at least, others could have it, and Altair tried to decide if that would be enough. The pain was too much, however, and the frown could not be hidden from Zamil as he separated from the crowding caravan to talk to him.

"You will find her some day," he said, already knowing the assassin's thoughts.

"I am fine," Altair denied.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, a firm, strong grip that squeezed in comfort. "If not her," Zamil said, "Then another. It will come, brother, no matter how long you have to search. People in our work deserve that much, at least."

Altair said nothing. Zamil sighed.

"I must return to my family, but before I take my leave, this is for you." A folded piece of parchment appeared in the journeyman's fingers, and he placed it in Altair's hands. "It came before you arrived. It's a map showing where scholars are planning to burn books and other sources of knowledge. I hope it helps."

Altair took it silently, pocketing it inside the red silk of his sash for later inspection. He nodded.

"Please be careful," Zamil said in a low voice, before adding in a louder one, "and let the future reunite us!"

Altair nodded again. "Safety and peace, brother. To you and your family."

"I'll give your blessings to my family," Zamil said. "I hope to see you soon. You return to the Master after each kill, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll keep an eye on the gate once we've settled! Good luck, friend!"

The two clasped hands, nodded to each other, and then turned, walking in opposite directions. Neither looked back.

Altair took an alley at the end of the square in front of the gate, hoping to check his map against the locations Zamil had collected for him. He would need to know what they looked like and...

"Altair! Your name is on everybody's lips these days!"

The assassin turned to see another journeyman, his dark skin in stark contrast to his white _tagelmust_.

"What is your name?" he asked, frowning. He did not recognize the voice, or the eyes.

"Naji," he said. "I was apprenticed here, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you don't recognize me."

An age-mate then, when all the children were being trained in Masyaf. There were very few Altair remembered from those younger days, outside of Malik and Zamil and those that went with him to Jerusalem. Was that normal? Or had his arrogance cost him something else?

"Do you have a test for me?" Altair asked, squaring his shoulders and preparing.

Naji stared at the demoted assassin for a long time, assessing, gauging. "We all knew Malik very well here," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "But we also saw what you did at the Merchant King's palace, and the Master has been forwarding your reports to the _rafiq_."

"... And?" Altair prompted.

"... Amongst the chatter in the market this morning I heard Jubair's elite want you dead." Naji explained slowly, his eyes never wavering. "I _was_ about to go after them, but... my back is hurting too much."

Altair stared at the man. It was the weakest excuse for a test he had heard yet. His eyes flicked to the bench not ten feet down the alley from him. Naji eyed it, too, but held his ground, refusing to break eye contact. There was, however, no malice in his voice, no superiority. " _You_ should take care of them. I'll wait for you here, and we can have a quick talk about the things I know."

This was more than a test then, Altair realized. Naji was seeking to get a measure of the demoted assassin from his own observations, rather than listen to the dictates of others. In a way, he was the first to make his own decision in how to treat Altair. The assassin was grateful. "Be fast though," he added, "I am in pain."

Altair nodded and backed out of the alley, eyes searching the square. After Zamil's assignment he knew how Jubair's guards were dressed, and he kept an eye out for their distinctive helmets and heavier armor. He searched for two hours before being able to kill all the targets; they were quite spread out. It thinned Jubair's ranks a little further, however, and for that the assassin could not complain. He did worry that killing so many over the course of one day would further alert Jubair to his presence, but there was little he could do about it now.

When he was finished, he made for the alley, confident that he had shown off an appropriate skill level to the informant and hoping he had given the other man the right impression.

He was not expecting, however, to see an entire patrol attacking the journeyman.

Naji was thrown against the wall, his torso covered in blood and his _tagelmust_ askew, almost off his head. One of the city guards raised his blade, ready for a killing strike, and that was all Altair had time to process before his own sword blocked the strike, holding the other blade shakily over his head.

"You will not touch him," he hissed.

"A white hood!"

"The _assassyun_!"

"Get him!"

Altair kicked the man he was blocking deep in his gut, knocking feet out from under him as he fell to the ground. Two guards swung at him from opposite sides, Altair blocking one and deflecting it along his blade, sending it to impale the other guard as the assassin ducked the strike. The first guard cried out when he realized he'd impaled an ally, and Altair used the opportunity to bludgeon his sword to the back of the guard's head. He could feel the neck snap under the strike and moved effortlessly into a swing at a third guard who blocked it. Two down, and the third guard moved to counter but Altair dodged it, circling around and swinging his blade into the back of the man's legs with such force one leg split in two. The man fell screaming to the ground but Altair was not done, his momentum spinning him in a tight circle and giving him time to change the angle of his blade, using it to drive it deep into the guard's stomach, silencing him.

"Don't just stand there!" the captain said to the three remaining guards. "We have to kill him!"

One moved forward, but Altair brutally shoved the swing aside, throwing a vicious fist into the man's chest. The armor absorbed most of the energy but it distracted the man enough that he didn't see the follow up sword swing, slashing deep into his arm, shattering it, before Altair spun around and slashed at his unprotected back. The captain moved in, his movement much more practiced and with a tighter defense. He managed to grab Altair, fist tugging at his white robes. The assassin grabbed the fist, yanking it off and spinning it around. The captain didn't want his wrist broken, and he spun with it, realizing too late he left his back exposed to the fighter. Altair kicked him aside, sending him headfirst into the wall of the narrow alley and cracking his skull against the stone.

A guard tried to take advantage of the distraction, but Altair never _got_ distracted in a fi _ght how the hell does he manage to do this day in and day o_ ut and spun out of the way. A second followed up, but he lifted up a bracer to deflect the sword, leaving the running man open and, effectively, he ran into Altair's blade. Altair gave a final shove, the body almost up to the hilt of his sword, before he kicked it off.

The captain was up again, holding his head as blood smeared his temple, and the assassin took his blade and swung it, savagely burying it into the man's shoulder, cutting through the collarbone before finally stopping.

He looked at the final guard.

"No, no," he blubbered, sword dropping from his hands. "S-stay away!"

He ran. Coward.

Altair pulled out a knife and threw it, his aim unwavering, and paid no attention as the man fell, instead stepping over the six bodies at his feet and moving immediately to Naji.

"...A man is _always_ better protected by a friend's blade, yes?" the informant said slowly, hurt laced in his voice. A pained laugh filled his lungs.

"Sh, don't try to talk," Altair whispered, calloused hands tugging at the sticky, stained robes, trying to see where the wound was to cause so much blood. The slash was long, and worse it was deep. It stretched from his shoulder blade down to his hip in a near vertical line; he had been struck from behind. Cowards! "You need a doctor," the assassin said, his voice level in spite of his emotion.

"Aamil's mentor," Naji started to say before a wince stopped him. Altair needed a moment to remember the doctor who had seen to him for the arrow in his arm, the man young Aamil had summoned. The slash was too deep, Altair tugged at the red sash under his belts, pulling it loose and wrapping it around Naji's abdomen as tight as he could, trying to staunch the bleeding. Then he ripped off one of his extended coattails and repeated the process.

"This needs more than stitches," he said, working quickly. "Where is the hospital from here?"

"Almost due east," Naji grunted, his dark face paling from the loss of blood. "Next to the _madrasah_..."

Altair nodded, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and helping Naji up to his feet. The journeyman almost fainted with the effort, and Altair knew he had to hurry. He left the carnage he had created, away from the gate square and working his way to one of the major thoroughfares - if such a narrow street could be called major - of the district. The informant's legs never moved, and Altair glanced at his companion. His eyes were open but glazed over, looking at nothing, agony painting his face. Cursing, Altair struggled to readjust the weight, distribute it more evenly, and quicken his pace at the same time. Several people stared at the site, blood trailing behind them as the assassin pressed forward. Murmurs were everywhere and it wasn't long before a city guard, a captain, trotted up to them.

"What's happened?"

Altair panted, giving him a moment to think. "I don't know," he said quickly, "We were attacked; a city patrol came in, and we ran. Please, he needs a doctor."

"Where?"

"By the Bab al-Saghir," Altair said; his words clipped from his impatience.

Before he could say more the captain motioned for his men. "It's likely the _assassyun_ , we have to hurry!"

And all seven guards ran from Altair and the injured Naji and dashed the way the pair had come. The assassin growled and kept walking, the weight straining his muscles and slowing him down. He had to hurry!

"This is what I know about your target..." Naji said slowly, his words slurred.

"Quiet, words will waste energy," Altair said, struggling to move forward.

"... The scholar Jubair... is known to wear rich... golden robes... and carries with him... a large pouch..."

"Silence, Naji," Altair hissed.

"... This distinguishes Jubair... from the other scholars..."

The road opened up to a moderate square, and a child running across their path tripped Altair, causing the two to stumble and fall. Altair was up to his knees quickly, calling out the journeyman's name to see if he was still conscious. The man's eyes were glazed again, his skin almost Christian white, he had lost so much blood. Cursing, Altair ripped off another coattail and began wrapping.

"Naji, stay with me, we're almost at the hospital!"

Grunting, Altair rolled the informant over, intent to carry him again, when he saw shadows surrounding him. He looked up; ready for more slaughter if he had to, but instead saw several men in black robes and _keffiyah_. One, in a _taqiya_ hat instead of scarves, knelt down. "What's happened?" he asked, looking over Naji.

"We were attacked," Altair said, sick of the delays as more blood pooled in his hands. "Please, there is no time for this, I have to get him to the hospital."

The man nodded, motioning for the others. They circled around Naji and Altair nearly went for his sword, uncertain of the intent of these men.

"Don't worry, brother," the man in the _taqiya_ said, "we are fellow scholars, from _Madrasah Al-Kallasah_ , and many of our professors are linked to the hospital. We will help carry him." The others, their _keffiyah_ scarves hiding most of their faces, gently put their hands under the injured Naji and lifted him. Travel went much quicker, then, as they moved parallel to the south wall of the university, through the plaza Altair had been in the day before when interrogating the speaker, and then through the gates of the hospital.

A herald was there, singing more praises of the Crusade and Salah ad-Din.

"South comes the English King and his infidel army. They leave horrors in their wake. Salah ad-Din rides to meet him so that these barbarous acts might be avenged! Pray that God, glorious and exalted is He, finds favor with us, that He may grant us victory! The fires of war consume the land and thousands of lives are lost in its defense. It seems a tragedy, but I say this is an honor: to die in service to God, fighting for what we believe in! There is no greater glory than this. Praise be Salah ad-Din! He has found the strength to stand in defense of our great civilization. Make no mistake; it is our very existence we are fighting for. The infidel King would see us all wiped from the world! We must resist! We must push back."

One look at Naji and the doctors all but swarmed around them, the scholars offering what they could, and Altair explained what he saw of the wound, how deep it was and what organs seemed damaged. Surgery began almost immediately, and soon the assassin was alone with the lead scholar. His robes were soaked in Naji's blood, and suddenly he felt exhausted.

"You know a little bit of anatomy," the chief scholar said, his voice warm and kind.

"Not as much as a friend," Altair said, sitting on a bench.

"Ah, but more than most. Where did you receive your education?"

Altair hesitated, taking a moment to think, before saying, "My master. It was never a formal education."

"Even more remarkable then. You thought quickly and did well."

"... Thank you," Altair said slowly.

"No need to be so distrustful, friend. We are both scholars and understand the pursuits of knowledge."

Altair said nothing, instead looked to the black robes.

"Ah, yes, the change in color," the man said. "Master Jubair suggested it, we are in mourning of the false words and lost knowledge."

The assassin kept his reticence, looking down, not needing to pretend that his thoughts were elsewhere. The head scholar nodded, understanding.

Time stretched out between them as the doctors did their work. Exhaustion threatened to overtake Altair, but he refused to submit to it. Ibtisam needed to know what happened to Naji, but he dared not leave a brother in the hands of Jubair's scholars, and they seemed reluctant to leave until word arrived of the journeyman's progress. Two did disappear, likely to report the "assassin's" assault on innocent men to Jubair's ears, but the others kept to themselves, save the man who seemed to be the lead scholar, the one in the _taqiya_ instead of a scarf. He tried to start conversation, but Altair would have none of it, simply staring at his bloody hands and robes and wondering if there wasn't something he could have done differently. Hours passed, and at last a doctor, soaked in blood himself, approached them.

"He's alive for now," he said simply. "The next few days are critical. Who bound his wounds?"

The lead scholar pointed to the bloody Altair.

"That was quick thinking and good work. It may have saved his life. Is there anyone I should notify?"

"I know who to contact," Altair said simply. He turned to the black-clad scholar, leery of his association but still grateful for the help. At length, the assassin finally decided to nod, and the lead scholar offered one in return. The lead scholar left with his troupe, and after asking a few questions, the assassin did as well.

It was late afternoon, now, and Altair tried to work his way around the city crier. Even in his exhaustion, he noted two doctors huddled together in a corner of the hospital's courtyard. He would have written it off, he had to get to Ibtisam, until he heard Jubair's name. The assassin worked his way closer, wanting to know what they were talking about.

"We found the place!" one of them said, "It's just as you described it."

The second doctor nodded. "I suspect he'll want to deal with this himself and quickly," he said, referring to Jubair. "Best we say nothing to the others."

"A wise course of action," said the first. "Truth be told, I'll be happy when this business is done."

"Soon, my friend, soon. Tomorrow should see the last of them put to torch. Boy!" he added, called out to a young messenger. "Come here. You still have the letter I gave you?"

"Yes," the young teen said.

"Go and deliver it then. You'll find the one it's meant for inside the _Madrasah_."

"Yes," the boy said. The teen went off, but Altair had taken the letter before he even traveled three steps. He walked past the crier and around the long string of degenerates waiting to be treated. He would read the letter later; his first priority was getting to Ibtisam.

It was night by the time Altair returned to the Bureau.

One look at the bloody robes and Ibtisam dropped his paintbrush, the jar he was working on long forgotten. "What happened?" he demanded.

"City patrol attacked a brother, Naji," Altair said, "They are dead. Naji is in the hospital east of the university; they say the next few days are critical."

The curse the _rafiq_ spat was bitter and vicious. He called for Aalim, leaving the apprentice and another journeyman Altair didn't recognize in charge after explaining where he was going. Altair had enough time to change the worst of his bloodstained clothes and splash water on his hands before he and the _rafiq_ left the Bureau through the pottery shop and then to the streets.

"Tell me everything that happened," Ibtisam said in low, hissed tone.

Altair explained everything, helping Zamil with his last assignment and escorting them to the gate, coming across Naji and accepting the test he had offered, and went into explicit detail when he described what he saw when he had returned and what he had done to staunch the bleeding and get him to the hospital. Ibtisam said little, his face hard and set; gone was the dry, ironic grin.

It was _Maghrib_ prayer when they arrived, but Ibtisam bullied his way inside, knocking aside several degenerates and grabbing a doctor by the scruff of his smock and demanding to know where Naji was. Someone recognized Altair and managed to interrupt the doctor's prayer to bring him in.

"Are you a heretic?" the man demanded, furious that he had been interrupted.

"No," Ibtisam said, "I am a man who has just learned one of my best assistant's _almost died_! I would know his condition."

The doctor sighed, long and deep, and gestured the two assassins to follow. Altair stayed outside of the room, waiting for several hours as Ibtisam talked with the doctor and sat with the injured journeyman. He sat by the door, dozing, half thinking about Naji and half thinking about his mission; he tried to focus on the latter - the book-burnings were tomorrow, but his thoughts kept scattering. He pictured Zamil and his family, and Adha holding a baby, and bloody Naji and the ship with Adha disappearing into the horizon. The images all blurred together, and he startled when a hand touched his shoulder.

Ibtisam stood over him, his eyes heavy and with dark circles under him. It was dawn.

He left without a word, and Altair got up to follow. The walk to the Bureau was utterly silent; Ibtisam black with anger, and the demoted assassin let him have his thoughts.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still obsessively playing ACR; we just finished buying up all of the city - again - and we haven't even started memory sequence 4.
> 
> Anyway, a few comments for this chapter. We at last find out Ibtisam isn't always the bitter sarcastic jerk we see him to be; his opinion of Altair after his heroics with Abu'l Nuquod has softened his opinion of him, and saving Naji's life certainly helped. Our Damascus rafiq is certainly protective of the people under his wing, which is probably why he's so vicious with Altair; Malik was his pupil, after all. :D
> 
> Did anybody notice Altair managed to control his temper? Much better than the random slaughter of a herald in Jerusalem, yes? Our little eagle is learning.
> 
> But really, this chapter, this mission, is about the two informants, Zamil and Naji. Zamil; well, he did appear twice in the game, and he's just so affable that a girl just wants to learn more about him. It's also another way for Altair to think about the things that happened in his life - specifically with Adha - and a chance for him to try and grow past it. That will take time, of course, and a certain Templar steward... We also see Naji (which means survivor, by the way; he's not dying any time soon) be the chance to show how opinions of Altair are changing. He's also a counterpoint to the actual game - when you play the quest there really is a bench not three meters from where Naji is standing protesting that his back is in pain. We laugh every time.
> 
> Next chapter: Death of a Scholar, and more Zamil.


	18. Death of a Scholar

When they entered the Bureau, the _rafiq_ abruptly turned around.

"What news, Altair?" he asked in a quiet whisper. "About Jubair?"

"... I've learned much about my enemy," Altair said, taking a moment to rearrange his thoughts and focus.

"Share what you know then," Ibtisam said, his voice low, his tone slightly impatient.

"Jubair has become obsessed with purging the city of its knowledge."

The dark circles under the _rafiq's_ eyes became more obvious as his eyes doubled in size, the revelation clearly unexpected. "A most terrible crime," he muttered. "Now I see why Al Mualim wants you to remove him."

"He's using the city scholars to assist him," Altair added, rubbing his face, still exhausted. "They go out into the streets, harassing the people and collecting written works. I fear he intends to destroy them all."

The look on Ibtisam was absolutely bloodthirsty. "He must be stopped."

"That's why I'm here. He's to hold a meeting soon, at the _Madrasah Al-Kallasah_ , it's where I'll go. It's where I'll take his life."

The _rafiq_ nodded, pulling out the book and the feather. Altair took it and placed it in his robe, eyeing the murderous Ibtisam, but the older man held the assassin's eyes, dark and meaningful.

"I'll leave you alone to prepare," he said in a low, black voice. "Bring glory to the Brotherhood."

Altair nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Make him _suffer_."

"... As you wish."

Ibtisam disappeared into the back room, his voice suddenly booming, calling for Aamil and others, shouting that Naji couldn't be left alone until he was well enough to be brought to the Bureau, that he needed at least two men to go to the hospital, and other orders. The irony and humor had disappeared like smoke.

The voices eventually faded in Altair's mind. He had several hours before Jubair would begin speaking to the other scholars. The assassin went inside and looked for new robes, one not smeared with blood or half cleaned. Once he was changed, he procured a toolkit and made his way to the courtyard. During his fight with the guards who had injured Naji, he had used one of his bracers to deflect, and the metal was now dented. He quickly unstrapped it and his hidden blade, and went about cleaning and checking every coil, every spring, every plate of metal of his preferred weapon. The string that triggered the blade needed replacement, one of the blades edges had dulled slightly, and despite his best efforts at keeping the blade clean there were dried bits of blood that needed to be scraped and flecked off. Altair sat in the courtyard, doing maintenance on his weapon, his motions practiced and methodic - and cathartic, as Naji's troubles slowly faded from his mind. He could visualize Jubair better now, with golden robes and a large pouch, information that Naji had almost died trying to give him. He would do the informant honor with this kill.

When he was done, he lay upon the cushions, closing his eyes, and gave himself a little over an hour to rest.

Then he left the Bureau to begin his assassination.

It was still early morning, with the sun crested and beginning its ascent through the sky. Morning prayers would be finishing, so Altair strapped his blade and kept to the roofs as he went to the _Madrasah Al-Kallasah_. Already, across the city, columns of smoke that were neither cook-fires nor lamps. Those were likely book burnings and Altair snarled at the very idea.

He arrived at the _Madrasah_ quickly, as it was just south-southeast of the Bureau, but he had to pick across the roofs carefully. Many archers were keeping weary eyes around, fresh from a night's rest that Altair did not truly have. He still worried over Naji and if he would live or not.

Altair dealt with the archers he could, his supply of throwing knives depleted after the previous day's long search for Jubair's guards and never having the chance to replenish. He had four left and he was only just reaching the _Madrasah_ that he had visited so many times unseen in the previous few days. And, given the patrols down on the packed and crowded streets below, Altair did not dare risk going to pickpocket more.

So he stayed low on the rooftops, climbing carefully, and surprising the archers in his way with silence and stealth, his hidden blade dispatching them quickly.

The _Madrasah_ was a square building with a large courtyard in the middle of it. The roof bore safety rails as stairs lead up to it from the courtyard, likely for study of the sun, the sky, stars, or whatever else was being taught. As such, once Altair had removed the archers in his way, he had an easy way down into the building. He stayed low, looking over the railing to a bonfire being built and fueled with the university's own scrolls and books. Black-and-red robed scholars stoked the fire, letting sparks and embers land on the once beautifully tiled floor, marring it with soot and ash.

"Every single text in this city _must_ be destroyed!" a scholar said, stepping out from inside.

Altair crouched low on the balcony, watching.

"My friend, you _must_ not do this," said another scholar. A scholar Altair recognized. It was the chief scholar that had helped him and Naji the previous day. He stood in front of the first scholar, one whose belt bore gold-striped threads and bore a pouch. _Jubair!_ "Much knowledge rests within these parchments. Put there by our ancestors for good reason."

Jubair scoffed. "And what reason is this?"

"They are beacons, meant to guide us," the chief scholar replied calmly. "A physician needs texts like these to learn anatomy, as I was reminded yesterday. An alchemist needs texts to look up medicines to mix and how to identify herbs. All to save us from the darkness that is ignorance."

"No!" Jubair interrupted, gesturing. "These bits of parchment are covered in _lies_. They poison your minds! And so long as they exist, you cannot hope to see the world as it truly is." He walked away stiffly towards the bonfire where other scholars were tossing in manuscripts and scrolls.

"How can you accuse these scrolls of being weapons?" the chief scholar replied, stepping in front of Jubair again. "They are tools of _learning_."

"You turn to them for answers and salvation," Jubair replied, crossing his arms. "You rely more upon them than yourself. This makes you weak, and _stupid_."

The chief scholar shook his head.

"You trust in words," Jubair continued. "Drops of ink. Do you ever stop to think of who put them there? Or _why_? No. You simply accept their words without question. _And_ , what if those words speak falsely, as they often do? This is dangerous."

"You are wrong," the scholar replied, standing in front of Jubair again as he walked to the bonfire. "Words, once wrong, can be rewritten. Corrected. New texts can show errors, question errors. These texts still give the gift of knowledge! We need them!"

Jubair scowled fiercely. "You love your precious writings? You'd do anything for them?"

This couldn't be good.

"Yes," the scholar replied hesitantly, feeling the shift in conversation but uncertain what to make of it. "Yes of course."

"Then _join_ them!"

Jubair shoved.

The scholar screamed.

Fire consumed him, easily catching his robes that landed first, and then through to his back. The scholar rolled, trying to get out of the flames, but once he was on his stomach, _those_ clothes caught fire and he couldn't get his hands or legs under him without burning. The scholars who has been feeding the bonfire backed away in horror as Jubair stood calmly over the burning body.

"Any man who speaks as he is just as much a threat!" Cold eyes swept the scholars. "Do any else among you wish to challenge me?" No one dared say anything as their former colleague kept screaming. "Good. Your orders are simple enough. Go out into the city. Collect any remaining writings and add them to the piles in the streets. When you're done we'll send a cart to collect them that they may be destroyed."

With a gesture, the scholars all left, leaving the chief scholar burning on the bonfire.

Once the courtyard was empty, Altair acted swiftly. He grabbed a rug from under his feet and leapt down to the sooty tiles below. Dropping the rug, he ran to the fire and reached in, ignoring the heat and flames as they tried to lick at his thick leather guards, and grabbed the scholar. A firm yank pulled him off the bonfire and Altair lifted the rug and laid it out over him, smothering the flames and depriving them of the air they needed. A few more smothers and the flames died out and Altair quickly knelt down.

"Brother!" he hissed harshly. "Scholar! You saved my brother yesterday, making you a brother to me, can you _hear_ me?"

The scholar coughed, groaning and moaning. His face was smoked and half burned, but one eye was able to focus on him. "Brother? Ah... ack," he coughed again and Altair started ripping the burned clothes off, revealing the red and peeling skin beneath. "From yesterday..."

Altair nodded, already pulling out his waterskin and pouring its warm contents onto the most badly burned areas.

The ones that weren't charred anyway.

"My son... my son..."

"Yes?"

"Get my son... to my father..." the scholar started coughing again.

"And his mother?"

"Dead... childbirth... oh my love..."

"I shall see to it."

The scholar coughed again. "Thank you... brother..."

Altair grimaced. The more he peeled back the worse the burns were looking. The scholar could not survive this.

"Worry not, brother," Altair said. "Your son will be looked after and you will feel no more pain."

Altair's hidden blade's first taste of blood after the cleaning was burnt. He closed the scholar's eyes. He had extra work to do after he reported to Ibtisam and before he left back for Masyaf. He would tell the son of how brave his father was. That the man's last thoughts and words were of his own flesh and blood.

But for now, he had a deranged scholar to kill.

Altair climbed back up to the rooftops. The time to help the chief scholar was enough for a fair amount of distance to be covered and Altair would need the roofs to catch up.

Looking down to the streets, however, Altair realized that he had lost all sight of the scholars, and even if he could see them, he was too high to truly see if they weren't just a fanatic underling or Jubair himself.

Altair didn't like cursing, but this felt like a truly appropriate time for it.

He pulled out the map that Zamil had so generously provided of the bonfire locations for the district. Jubair could not be far, hiding as he was from "the man in the white hood," so Altair believed he could catch up.

Or so he hoped.

The closest bonfire was to the west of the _Madrasah_ , so Altair started tracing his way along the roofs, looking to the column of smoke indicating that another bonfire of knowledge was burning. He stepped swiftly, killing an archer on his way with his hidden blade until he came to a small courtyard. Laying flat on the roof, he looked over, studying.

"Citizens! Bring forth your writings! They seem safe," the scholar was saying, "but it is a trick! Fair words give way to evil deeds! Look around; all the land is consumed by wickedness, because of texts like these! No more! If you truly value peace, if you truly wish to see an end to war, give up your books; your scrolls; your manuscripts! For they feed the flames of ignorance, and hate!"

The rhetoric was vile, but Altair ignored it as he looked around the courtyard. The scholar stayed at the entrance, preaching to a small crowd of citizens, some hesitantly handing over the works of knowledge that they'd brought with them. The courtyard itself was small, a palm tree stood to provide shade in the afternoon surrounded by purple and white flowers.

Strange for Jubair to be alone and to provide such access for the crowds.

Altair eased back from the edge of the roof and went to another angle, looking down.

_Guards. Set in back and watching the crowds._

Oh, that was clever. Jubair had sent out his own men to die. The scholars would preach to the crowds and the guards kept an eye out. Once they saw anything, if the scholar died, the alarm would be sounded and Jubair would be rushed back to the _Madrasah_ , safe once more. And given the uniforms, it was assumed that Altair would have to get close to confirm that it was Jubair.

Altair backed away from the edge of the roof once more and sat in the mid-morning sun, thinking. He was exhausted, but focused. He didn't have time to check every single bonfire in the district. Wherever Jubair was going, he wouldn't be long. He _was_ in hiding, after all. Or at least attempting to.

Looking out over the skyline, he checked the bonfires and their position to the _Madrasah_. The next closest would be just south of the university, so Altair gave a quite sigh as the sun continued to beat down the heat and moved along the rooftops once more.

It was almost an hour later when he finally crept to the edge of the roofline, crossbeams offering little shade in the courtyard below.

"Today is a glorious day! We will at last be free! Purge yourselves of these evil spirits before they can control you! Put yourself above their corrupting influence! Their words can only do harm!"

It was the same set up as the previous courtyard. A scholar preaching to the crowd at the entrance of the courtyard as bait for the two guards behind him, sharply watching the crowds.

Altair sat back again, sweat dripping down his face. It had been hours since Jubair had left the _Madrasah_ , surely he'd be back at it by now? But why had he even left in the first place? After dropping that poor scholar into the flames, shouldn't he have retreated into the university where he felt safe? What was so important out in the bonfires that his minions clearly had well in hand?

He glanced around the columns of smoke rising from the streets, and noted one of them was near the hospital where Naji was staying.

... _Of course!_

Altair reached back for his small pouches and pulled out the letter he had lifted at the hospital from the doctors who seemed eager to follow Jubair's will.

_Master Jubair:_

_I fear your suspicions have been proven true. We followed her as you asked us to, and discovered she has indeed kept the books. We would have taken them ourselves, but felt it best that you attend to it personally. She's your wife, after all._

_Below is a map that will lead you to her hiding place. It is a small garden, empty save for a sundial and bench._

_I am sorry it has come to this. It cannot be easy, but I am certain you will do what is right._

_Your Brother Always,_

_Hakim_

It seemed Jubair's own wife didn't agree with his teachings.

How kind of the man's underlings to provide a map. Altair took off across the roofs once more. From below, various words from the other scholars burning books across the city filtered up to him.

"Anyone can put ink to parchment, anyone! Such power, such influence, must be controlled! It cannot be given over to just any person. It is irresponsible and dangerous. We must destroy them all, that they may not further poison our minds!

"For centuries, we've quietly acquiesced, agreed to believe in nothing more than the words of men and women long since turned to dust! And why? Why do we believe absent logic and evidence? We submit for no other reason than we are told our ancestors did the same! This ends today!"

It was truly disgusting rhetoric and Altair sneered at the very presumption in it. Burning knowledge. Knowledge was what led to all things.

To Altair's displeasure, he ended up using the last of his knives taking out archers on his way over the skyline. While Altair had already proven that he could do these assassinations with naught but his hidden blade, it didn't change that more weapons in such a high-alert city would be appreciated.

Still, with the sun at its zenith, heat stagnating the very air around him, Altair could hear the voice of Jubair from the courtyard below.

"Good people of Damascus, you are doing the right thing. Let us cleanse this city of it's poisoned past. This is a righteous act, and from the flames, shall be born a new era, one of truth and unity, governed by a singular wisdom."

The courtyard did indeed have only one bench, and the sundial was an obelisk. But Altair saw other things. There was a pair of ladders that lead down into the courtyard, the guards that for other scholars remained back were instead at the entrance of the courtyard, taking scripts and texts handed in from the crowds, but allowing for no one to come into the courtyard. Crowd control to keep the real Jubair safe.

This presented a problem for Altair. Those guards weren't letting anything past them but scrolls. If Altair had the soot-and-blood robes of Jubair's fellow scholars, he might get through, but he didn't have the time to go looking. Jubair was looking around with nerves, though he clearly believed in what he was shouting to the masses outside. There was no guarantee he'd be there all day.

He stepped back from the edge, thinking of his options. He had originally been planning to get Jubair back at the _Madraasah_ , or if he left to see his followers, some time when there weren't so many guards. But he hadn't had time to properly plan, not after Naji had been attacked. He was exhausted still, and the heat was dripping sweat down his face and arms and back like it was rain.

Lying down on his stomach, he crawled to the edge again to see the layout once more, assessing approaches and filing through plans and dismissing them as they appeared.

In the end, Altair had to grimace at his plan. It wasn't ideal, but he didn't have time or options.

Checking the entrances once more, Altair laid out both of his swords on the roof, behind crates and descended the first ladder. The eyes of the guards immediately flicked to him, but he ignored them, walking through a door like he owned the home. Once inside, he found the stairs and descended to the ground level. He could see Jubair out the window, still preaching and shouting to the crowd.

From a pouch he pulled out blank parchment, rolled it and ripped off part of his red sash to hold it closed. He did the same with the maps he'd made of Damascus and Acre, making a small pile of scrolls that could pass as the "poisonous texts" that were to be burnt.

Silently, he opened the door to the courtyard just a crack and listened as Jubair continued to shout his twisted logic. The scholar certainly knew how to harangue and it was a half hour later when the target finally paused, likely to catch a breath. Or maybe a meal. Altair's own stomach was grumbling. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning.

Still, this would likely be his best chance. He opened the door silently and walked across the courtyard. As he passed behind Jubair, his hidden blade, still bearing soot and ash from a scholar who sought to protect books, slid easily into the scholar's back. Altair continued on, tossing his maps and blank parchment onto the bonfire and turned.

Jubair was still staggering and, weary of the crowd that was watching, Altair put on concern and worry and helped the target to the bench.

"Why?" Jubair hissed, looking to Altair. "Why have you done this!"

Altair answered, "Men must be free to do what they believe. It is not our right to punish one for thinking what they do, no matter how much we disagree."

The scholar coughed. "Then what?" he spat back.

"You, of all people, should know the answer: Educate them, teach them right from wrong. It must be knowledge that frees them, not force."

Because the best wisdom was one that a person learned for themselves. One cannot ram knowledge down another's throat. Altair knew this at the very core of his being. It was how Al Mualim taught, through example and lessons. He did not force.

"They do not learn," Jubair lamented, "fixed in their ways as they are. You are naïve to think otherwise." He gasped, then coughed. "It's an illness for which there is but one cure."

Purging. Altair shook his head and wondered what had twisted the man so.

"You're wrong. And that is why you must be put to rest."

Jubair gave a hollow, choked laugh. "Am I not unlike those precious books you wish to save? A source of knowledge with which you disagree? Yet you are rather quick to steal my life..."

Altair did not care for the comparison. "Others have sought to make you see reason and you have not even heard their pleas. You are a small sacrifice to save many. It is necessary." For those watching, he gave his waterskin to the scholar.

Jubair pushed it away. "Is it not ancient scrolls that inspire the Crusaders, that fill Salah ad-Din and his men with a sense of righteous fury? Their texts endanger others, bring death and war in their wake. I, too, was making a small sacrifice." Jubair started to slump. "It matters little now. Your deed is done... and so am I."

The day's work weighed heavily on his mind. Jubair swore he wished only to protect the people from repeating the mistakes of the ancestors. A noble goal. Still, his methods were unacceptable. He could not be allowed to continue. To deprive people of so much knowledge... He was not saving these people, but blinding them. But was killing him the only solution?

With a hand hidden from the crowd, Altair dipped his feather into the blood of Jubair, and stood, calmly walking back the way he came and into the house. He silently and swiftly returned to the rooftops, getting his swords from where he hid them, and started making his way back to the Bureau.

Behind him, the alarm started to sound.

Altair dropped into the Bureau in the high heat of midafternoon. He was drenched in sweat and desperate for some proper sleep. As expected for the middle of the day, there were no other Assassins about, so Altair walked in to see Ibtisam.

The _rafiq_ turned and put on a black smile. "Altair. Tell me you've met with success."

"Yes. Jubair's fires are extinguished. His life as well. Naji may heal easily." He held up the bloodied feather.

"Excellent news! I had no doubt you'd succeed," Ibtisam's smile, though still dark, lightened. "The other Assassins who are checking in on Naji will be most envious they couldn't stick their blades into that twisted scholar, but you were the one who would have no doubt of success."

That was likely the kindest words that the sarcastic _rafiq_ had ever offered.

Altair shook his head. "You should have seen him," he said quietly. "The scholars followed him so readily." He paused. "Wasn't just books they fed to fire either. The scholar who helped me get Naji to the hospital died this morning. He bade me to ensure his son went to his father."

Ibtisam nodded. "We will see to it."

"If possible, I wish to speak with the boy. Tell him of his father's last moments."

The _rafiq_ blinked, looking surprised before a smile far warmer crossed his face. Ibtisam leaned back against his shelves. "Such ignorance breeds only evil," he said quietly. "You've done a good thing this day."

Altair shook his head again, rubbing at his tired eyes. "As with my other targets, he believed he was doing the right thing. Clearing a path to a better future." Such twisted logic.

Ibtisam shrugged. "Of course he would. Such is the landscape of a madman's mind."

"The things I've seen these past few months," Altair replied, tired and weary, "it is as if all the land has gone mad."

"And this is why we fight to end the war," Ibtisam said firmly. "War breeds such madness. It matters not who wins or how, but that the dark deeds are stopped. That sanity might return. The people are _desperate_ for direction. It's easy for men like Jubair to prey on this, and turn them towards evil. You should go, Altair. Return to Al Mualim and tell him what you saw, let him know the good you've done this day."

Altair nodded.

"But first, get some sleep. You still haven't done any of your reports, and we'll find the child of that scholar." Ibtisam gestured. "Come, I'll give you a private room."

"Safety and peace, _rafiq_."

"Upon you as well. After today, you've earned it."

* * *

"Ah, it's you! My husband's friend."

Altair looked up in the early morning light as he entered the gates of Masyaf, tired from a long night riding. A woman with stunning eyes was at the well under the tree, and it took a moment for the assassin's sleep deprived mind to remember where he had seen such eyes before. Zamil's wife. What was her name? Aaqilah.

The woman adjusted her _hijab_ before taking a massive jar of water she had no doubt just filled and lifted it to her head. "My husband will be jealous that I saw you before him," she said warmly. "But then, he was quite jealous on the trip back, unable to believe a woman as shy as myself would bring herself to talk to you - the mighty eagle of his Order - after just meeting you. Ah, it's so nice to see him jealous."

... Altair would never understand women.

He decided not to comment. "Was your journey safe?"

"Yes," she said. "We only just arrived yesterday. You must have ridden very hard to catch up to use so quickly; Zamil said you would, said you were always in a rush."

"Zamil talks too much," Altair said, walking with the woman.

"It is part of his charm," Aaqilah said, her head and neck stiff with the weight of the jug of water. "None would ever believe a man so affable and talkative be such a competent killer, but then, none would ever believe I am as intelligent as I am, so I suppose we all have pieces of ourselves that are kept hidden to all but those who are close."

"Are you fine with it?" Altair asked, watching the woman. "With the work that we do?"

"I would not be here if I wasn't," she said, eyes still looking straight ahead. "We all want a better world." The slope of the mountain began to increase sharply, and their walking slowed as Aaqilah became more careful with her steps. "My father, he thought the only way to keep me safe was to hide me away in that house. I never went outside unless it was under his supervision. I love him, but he had no understanding on how to treat a woman, and no amount of talking to him, reasoning with him, or even throwing a tantrum at him could get him to change his mind. In proof, he prevented me from becoming all that I am, and it was not so much a stretch to imagine people like Abu'l Nuquod and others doing such a thing to more than just me. There were times I wanted desperately to kill my father."

"Does Zamil know this?" Altair asked, suddenly uncomfortable. This was a topic best left for her husband; the assassin felt like he had somehow intruded on something private, though he could not for the life of him understand how he had gotten here.

"He knows, yes. He even offered to kill my father. That was very sweet of him." A bright smile bled through the _hijab_ , soft and loving and private, meant only for Zamil. A thought occurred to her, and she turned slightly, as the jar would allow, to make a comment. "You failed to say how beautiful it is here. I have never seen water as clear, as clean, as what you have here; and the view of the lake is profound. Also, Zamil took me to your fortress - you can see for miles in all directions."

Altair frowned. He had lived here since before he could remember, the lake and the fortress were a matter of course; he never thought them beautiful because he saw them every day. He could not imagine what an outsider thought of the village.

"The gardens were also beautiful," she added, something hard in her voice. "The women, too."

Altair shrugged. "They are for those who suffer," he said simply. "Those that have been worn down by our work go there for counsel and comfort."

"Yes," Aaqilah said. "I'm sure they lay there every night."

Altair looked to her, confused at first. "Oh," he said finally, "that. Few women offer such a service and fewer men take advantage of it. It is their hearts, not their bodies, that go there to heal, and those of us with families do not need the gardens."

Aaqilah's sharp eyes turned to Altair, her head barely turning. "Truly?" she asked.

Uncertain what the woman was asking, he tentatively nodded his head.

"... I like this village more and more," she said softly.

... Never understand women...

Altair escorted her to a small house by the market, near one of the buildings that had burned from the attack that spring, and helped her with the heavy jug of water before saying his goodbyes and making for the fortress. He stopped just below it, looking out over the cliff side and eyeing the lake. A gentle breeze caressed his hood, and the sun rose lazily over the mountain range, the sky burning off the last edges of gold to turn its favored blue.

A matter of context, of perspective. Altair nodded, seeing what Aaqilah saw, and learning something else about the Creed. He stood there, watching the sun climb up into the sky, the mountains as they changed color, the lake as birds flew over it, a smattering of trees dancing in the light breeze, and he reflected. Reflected on what had brought him to this point, what had shaped him in his life, the lessons he had learned, the people he had met.

He could not call it an epiphany, not as he knew the word, but something akin to understanding settled over him, and a corner of his heart at last relaxed.

"Nothing is true," his said in his soft tenor. "Everything is permitted." Even perfect days like this.

Altair took a deep breath through his nose, smelling, tasting the air, and held it.

Then he made his way up the mountain to the fortress.

There was a fight going on inside, as Altair expected with Rauf's vigorous training exercises. He moved toward the ring to watch the bout, see if the sword master needed him, when he saw it wasn't a sword match. Altair realized belatedly that the cries amongst the crowd were much louder, shouting and jeering, and Rauf watched with hard eyes, arms crossed and his mouth pressed in a thin line. The assassin touched his arm and the sword master glanced at him. "What is going on?" he asked.

Rauf blinked, not expecting to see Altair. "See for yourself," he answered, and moved slightly so that Altair could get a better view.

Wait, was that...?

"... Zamil?" Altair startled as his friend was shoved against the rail of the training ring, almost into Altair. He caught the man's shoulders, and Zamil turned, eyeing the fellow assassin.

"Ah, brother!" he said good-naturedly. "Good of you to come!" He was no longer in the simple smock of a journeyman spy, but the chain mail of the assassin guard.

"What is..." Altair did not get the chance to finish his question, as the other participant in the fight lunged forward - Abbas - and clipped Zamil in the jaw before grabbing a fistful of mail and throwing him the other way. The Masyaf guardian made another lunge, but Zamil was no longer distracted and ducked under it, a foot digging deep into Abbas' stomach and shoving the man away. Zamil followed up with a shoulder and it was Abbas' turn to be shoved into the guardrail. Zamil continued with a punch, one to the man's already abused midsection and another a vicious uppercut that sent blood flying everywhere. Abbas spun with the hit, stumbling to the ground.

"Do you yield now?" Zamil asked, breathing heavily and holding his ribs. "I'd rather not take this any further."

Slowly, Abbas stood, spitting out blood and a tooth before wiping his mouth. "I'll say what I like," he spat in his deep, rumbling voice.

"Such a shame," Zamil sighed, crossing his arms. He turned to the crowd, to Altair, and then turned back to his opponent. "I find it despicable that you are so determined to ruin a man who's saved my life."

"Not that tired old story about Alep," Abbas growled.

Altair stiffened.

"If you don't like that story," Zamil said agreeably, "then I can pick another. How about one most recent, where a Merchant King had poisoned the water of his fountain and was determined to slaughter the guests of his party. He deliberately drew attention to himself, drew fire from the archers in order to save others. He took an arrow in the arm, for it."

Abbas scoffed, his head rolling from one side to the next as he loosened up muscles for another assault. "You weren't here. You didn't see the city aflame because of his arrogance. You didn't have to bury the bodies."

"You're right." Altair's fists clenched at his sides, and he gave a slight growl before stepping into the ring. Rauf watching with assessing eyes. "He was not there. I was, and since it is I that you have the quarrel with, it should be I that deals with it."

Zamil turned; his jaw swollen and one eye black in addition to whatever bruising he received that made him hold his ribs. He smiled brightly. "Sorry to bother you with this, my friend," he said, "I thought you would be another day, and the things he was saying were simply unconscionable."

"... Thank you, brother," Altair said softly. He didn't know what else to say.

Zamil's face softened slightly. He understood. "Well, then, I'll leave the rest to you if you're of a mind - and I know that you are. I would recommend looking out for his right hook, it is almost a vicious as his mouth."

Altair put his hand on is friend's shoulder, before turning to Abbas. "I do not wish to fight you," he said simply.

"So you've turned coward, now?" Abbas drawled, glaring at the assassin. Altair felt his ire raise, his fists clenched again, but he worked through it.

"No," Altair said. "You've already been in a fight, you have injuries, and there would be no honor in fighting you now."

Abbas stood to his full height, blood dribbling out of his split lip and leaving and angry red smear down his chin and neck. "Then you would go sulking back to the Master," he said, "desperate to lick his boot and have him pat you on the head."

The hackles rose again, bloodlust filled his mouth. He worked through it again, clenching his teeth and making himself unclench his fists. They balled up again. "You will not change your opinion of me, and I cannot make you." Jubair's face filled his mind. "I cannot stop what you say when I am not here, and whatever you believe about me is your right. However," he added, working to relax the body that desperately wanted to fight this man, "goading a brother into a fight is not a wise decision, and I would have you stop before you reap the consequences of your choice."

Abbas laughed, a sick, bitter sound.

"And now you think you're the Master?" he demanded, wiping blood of his chin again. "You've put yourself so far above everyone else that now you put yourself above _him_?"

"I am not-" Any correction Altair could have offered was cut short as Abbas made a swing - the right hook Zamil had warned him of - that almost broke Altair's jaw, had the assassin not pulled back when he did. As it was, he stumbled backward, a hand going instinctively to the sudden flare of pain, before he found his footing.

There was no helping it after that.

That hook was the only blow that Abbas was able to land on Altair; as the assassin had said, the other man was slow because of his previous bout with Zamil, and at this point his anger only worked against him. Altair, angry himself, took a deep breath and landed a vicious punch into Abbas' shoulder, throwing the man just off balance enough to shove his shoulder into the man, sending him stumbling back. Altair pressed the advantage, moving in and kicking the man before he fully landed on the ground. He darted back as Abbas tried to kick his legs away from him, and Altair let the man get up before darting to the side, circling around him. Altair let out a smart kick to an unprotected knee, effectively shoving one leg out from under Abbas, and grabbed the pinwheeling arm desperate for balance and used it to swing Abbas in a stumbling circle, driving him into the rail of the ring. The solid wood shoved air out of the man's lungs, and Altair grabbed a shoulder, spinning him around and offering a punch to further squeeze oxygen out of his system. This was followed by a brutal kick to the groin, and Abbas was in so much pain, so desperate for air, that he had no defense as Altair grabbed the other man's arm and shoved him into the dirt, twisting the appendage up to the point of breaking it, holding it.

"Now, do you yield?" he demanded.

Altair waited for air to finally leak back into his opponent's lungs, and Abbas finally gave a weak nod, coughing and bloody.

Only then did Altair let go, and he turned without a second glance and walked out of the ring.

Rauf and Zamil both patted him on the shoulder. "Well done, brother," Rauf said.

"Yes, that will show that ruffian what it means to be a brother!" Zamil said expansively. "Imagine the arrogance of thinking he could make the entire Order hate you. Such cheek! Perhaps the Master should strip _him_ of his rank and make the man earn it. Oh, I would love treating him as a novice again!"

"You handled it very well," Rauf said softly, under Zamil's boasts and warm epitaphs. "You gave him every chance to back down. The others saw; he will not be listened to after this."

Altair shook his head. "I was not looking to demean him."

"You didn't. He did that himself," Rauf said. "I'll leave you in Zamil's capable hands, though, as I've students of my own to beat back into focus after that little display." Rauf backed away, his voice already booming to the assembled crowd. "All right! Now let's see what you've learned from those fights! Form up!"

"Oh, wait until my wife hears of this! You must come and see her; I'd like to know why she opened up to you right away when she is so shy around everyone else. I must confess I was quite jealous on the ride to Masyaf. And you should see my daughter! I think she grows even as I am watching her! She takes after her mother, of course, but I think I see my chin on her; it is the most marvelous thing! And she knows what she wants, and is not shy about demanding it. I wonder what a full night's sleep was like, but I get to sing to her while she feeds, Aaqilah says my voice is very soothing for her - though how I don't know. She is so strong already, I can't wait to see how smart she will be when she is older, in that I hope she takes more after her mother than me, my mind for numbers is not what it should be, but then none of us could compare to Baasir and Farasat. Oh, he is here in Masyaf, did you know that? His face became known in Jerusalem, you've been traveling so much I don't know if you were there. His family arrived last week, and he's very relieved to see them, let me tell you..."

Altair let the words carry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saving up money before we go to Cappadocia, we want to get all those books in one sitting - that's 450,000 akche (is that how it's spelled in the Roman alphabet?). Anyway...
> 
> Though we feel the writing fell short, Jubair's assassination is one of the most unique in the game for several reasons. The streets are the narrowest and most densely populated, it has the most roof archers in the entire game (at least it feels like it...), but it's also the assassination that has multiple targets. You have to pick out who you're supposed to kill - much like the enhanced Eagle Sense of ACR. The investigations all conveniently give you different locations to cross out until only one is left, but translating it to a fic proved to be a challenge until we set it up like this. Having Altair work his way through the various book burnings (and MAJOR boo for book burnings! The horror!) before he thought to look at the clues he's been collecting and finding the right location. This also gave us an opportunity to play with Altair's approach and make it more theatrical to the crowd. We also used artistic license for the scholar Jubair burns - it's just a random schmuck otherwise, so we switched out his kefiya scarf for a taquia hat and tried to make it meaningful. The first tenant of the Creed: mercy to the innocent, right?
> 
> And at last, Ibtisam joins the Altair camp - at least as much as a sarcastic rafiq can - Altair just keeps impressing people.
> 
> Masyaf, too, keeps being impressed by Altair, though not so much Abbas. This was, again, written before Revelations came out, but now that we've played the game (er, and are playing it again...) I think this scene works out exceedingly well. Abbas is more in character than we ever could have imagined, and the ever-helpful Zamil sets up the sequence perfectly. Altair, too, greatly shines in this because of the HUGE difference from when we first meet Abbas in the game and Altair threatens to kill him for talking trash - now he's trying to avoid the damn fight until it couldn't be helped anymore. Yay for the evolution of a character.
> 
> Next chapter: Altair recites the Creed, Desmond collects flag, and Stephen.


	19. Paranoia at the Docks

He slept deeply that night, and the very next morning was summoned to the Master's library. Altair took the time to reorganize his thoughts before he entered.

"Welcome home, child," Al Mualim said. The Templar treasure from Solomon's Temple was not there. "What news?"

"Another of the named is put to rest."

The old man nodded, stroking his white beard. "Then it would appear your work is nearly complete, and your status restored."

Altair hesitated a moment, but said, "... A question, Master, if I may." He remembered the _last_ time he had a pressing question, one that Al Mualim had refused to answer and lead to that bold confrontation. He would not repeat that incident, but he felt he needed to know.

"Ask and I will answer," the Master said, his voice as warm as it could be. There was no weariness now, he looked upon Altair not as an errant boy slow to learn, but as a man who had earned his place and right to ask.

"Why these men? Jubair and Sibrand?" Why a scholar twisted into destroying books? The others, they took control of the cities and it's people to provide an army, warm bodies for slaughter. That made sense, but a scholar...

"Ah, don't you see?" Al Mualim asked. "They pave the way for change," he said in an almost reverent voice, "ensure threats both old and new are not given cause to intervene."

"To weaken them is to weaken our enemy... I suppose that makes sense." But... it was roundabout. Something seemed off; Altair could not put his finger on it.

"Were these men to continue their work," the master explained, " _our_ work would quickly be undone."

Altair frowned. "... How is that? We've caused them much grief." Seven lay dead at the assassin's feet, major players in the Templar plan. These were milestones, how could the ground Altair had worked so hard for evaporate so quickly?

"We strike at the arms, yes," Al Mualim said. "But this is a hydra that you face, and it is quick to replace that which is severed."

The comparison to the Greek monster of old was terrifying. Did that mean they already had another deathdealer, another doctor and slaver? Were they arranging for new men to take charge of the cities? The assassin shook his head. "Then we should lob off its head and be done with this." Without de Sable, the Templars would crumble.

"Soon, _soon_ ," Al Mualim reassured. "We are close. Only one more man stands between us, and our ultimate goal."

Altair nodded. "I'll return to my work. The sooner this last man dies, the sooner I might face our true enemy." He would look forward to killing de Sable. The bloodletting would be satisfying. He turned to leave.

Al Mualim's face changed, then, a frown tugging at his beard as he stood up a little straighter, hearing something in Altair's voice. "Before you go," he said. " _I_ have a question for _you_."

"Of course," the assassin said.

"What is the truth?" The old man's eyes narrowed, gauging, assessing. He began pacing slowly in front of his desk.

Altair found himself straightening under the weight of the half blind gaze; and he remembered the thoughts he had the previous day, looking out over the lake. "We place faith in ourselves. We see the world the way it really is, and hope that one day all mankind would see the same."

"What is the world, then?" Al Mualim asked.

"An illusion. One which we can either submit to, as most do, or transcend."

"What is it to transcend?"

"To recognize nothing is true and everything is permitted, that laws arise not from divinity but from reason." Altair took a breath, adding, "I understand now that our Creed does not command us to be free, it commands us to be wise."

Al Mualim had stopped pacing, he stood in front of Altair directly, staring at the man for a long, long time, before he nodded, an approving smile touching his face for the briefest of moments before a more neutral expression settled on it. "Do you see now why the Templars are a threat?"

The assassin nodded. "Whereas we would dispel the illusion, they would use it to rule."

The Teacher nodded again. "Yes, to reshape the world in an image more pleasing to them. That is why I sent you to steal their treasure. That is why I keep it locked away. And that is why you kill them. So long as even one survives, so too does their desire, to create a new world order." He looked at Altair for a long time, something the assassin couldn't read permeating his face, before he turned and gestured to the desk, where a short sword lay waiting for him. "Take your equipment. Seek out this last man. With his death, Robert de Sable will at last be vulnerable."

Altair bowed. "It will be done."

And, for the first time since this all started, Al Mualim said, "Safety and peace upon you, Altair."

Wishing for his safety was the highest regard the Master could give, and Altair smiled slightly as he took the new short sword, stronger and newer, and began to swing it around, testing it's weight and bal _ance desynch, desynch, desynch, desynch damn it..._

* * *

Desmond gasped, looking around to see an empty library.

He grinned.

_"God damn it what's the problem now?"_

Desmond looked up to the ceiling of the library, working to keep his face and voice neutral. "No idea, doc." He rubbed his chin, hiding the triumphant smirk and looked around. His new short sword was strapped to his back; he pulled it out in fluid if still not quite natural motions of one who had watched his ancestor do it over and over. The handle was different, and the blade just _looked_ sharper. Putting it back, Desmond walked down the stairs round the perimeter of the library, stopping when he saw the door to the gardens.

An assassin flag stood in the middle of a square garden. Frowning (and willing to do anything to stall) he stepped into the garden and lo _ok it's a test for all the novices, there are twenty flags hidden around Masyaf see if you can find them all."_

_"I'll get them first!"_

_"No, Abbas, I bet I'll get them first!"_

_"You're too stupid to know where to look!"_

_"Oh yeah, watch me!"_

_An_ d Desmond blinked, looking at the flag. "Hey, Lucy," he asked. "This village was made up from his memories, right? Altair's memories?"

_"Of course. Why?"_

"Do you know when in his memories it was taken from?"

_"When? I'm not sure..."_

Desmond grinned and dashed back to the stairs, past the blank-faced guards and the training courtyard. He had some flags to find. "Watch my synch rate, will ya?" he asked, "I want to try something."

He scoured the entire village, around massive trees and by wells and in shadowed corners. He climbed to the roofs and made a show of how inexperienced he was as he hopped from one to the next, arduously climbing back down or sometimes even accidentally falling. (He learned something about the construct when he made one scary fall of several stories. The Animus wouldn't hurt him. He supposed that made sense, since this was his own mind, after all.) Bits of memory would flash, five year old Altair and Abbas chasing each other to find the flags, giving Desmond clues on where to go next when he was stuck. He finished his self-imposed assignment back where he had started, in the garden, and he grabb _ed the last one "It's a tie!" "No it's not!" but the mission was accompl_ ished and Desmond found himself grinning in childlike glee.

"Well?" he asked.

 _"It's amazing. You got another bar doing that,"_ Lucy said. _"What were those things you were grabbing?"_

"Flags," Desmond said, explaining as he walked down the mountain. "The Order would hide them in the village... and the cities, I think... and get the novices and apprentices to find and collect them all. Altair did it, so I guess reliving it by proxy did something."

_"Your synchronization rate is just fine, Mr. Miles! Just trigger the next memory!"_

Desmond passed by the stage and under it, finding the main path and hiking down the mountain. He grabbed the dull brown mare and pulled himself up into the saddle. What else could he do to stall? He rode down the mountain path and thought, entering the patchwork set up of the Kingdom.

Moaning over the idiocy of it, he pulled out his map and studied it. By this point, he knew the "true" trails better than the patchwork the construct had created, and he needed to remember how to get to Acre. The watchtowers helped, and soon he stopped needing the map, one trail "leading" to another that he knew was right. He avoided the guards mostly if not easily - even the annoying archers on the archery towers. When Desmond arrived at the giant mass grave, he stood over it for a long time, staring down; thinking. Remembering. He could still smell the bodies as Altair had first entered the city to kill that doctor guy, the disgust of seeing corpses half rotted and missing limbs, the diseased bodies of the people who still lived.

... He wouldn't let Abstergo get what they were looking for, the Templar treasure. Whatever stupid things it could purportedly do, he wouldn't let them have it.

He needed another way to stall, to take up time, to push back their precious deadline.

Desmond walked past the mass grave and into the city and it's constructed bodies, looking around for a ladder and trying to get to a roof. Acre had the least direct route to the Bureau, and the different heights of the buildings made it hard for him to remember where it was. He avoided the archers on the roofs when he could, they were dumb enough to miss him most of the time, and those that did gave a little beeping sound in his ear, letting him know he was being watched. Lucy's work, perhaps. It was the first time he had a chance to really wander around Acre, Altair's memories had taken him over so quickly when he first came here he didn't have the chance to explore the city in his own right.

Perhaps because of that, he was surprised when he saw another flag being tickled by a faint breeze on one of the roofs. Desmond walked over to it - it didn't have the Masyaf symbol on it... that stylized compass in a cup, but rather a black half with a white cross on it. He recognized it, sort of... Hospitalier flag, right?

Glancing at the sky as he realized he might have another way to stall, he picked it u _p and while you are here see how many of these you can find; we need to know how much presence is here in the city in case another Crusade star_ ts. Teenage Altair, then.

Nodding, Desmond started looking for flags.

There were several types of flags, he discovered. One for each district - that took him longer to figure out to his chagrin. Ignoring Vidic's repeated protests - for someone pretending to be so formal he knew some very colorful language, Desmond worked his way through the Hospitalier and Chain district, areas Altair had already been through, meaning he had some familiarity (sort of) with it. He wasn't the expert that his ancestor was, but he recognized big places like the hospital and the fortress and the giant freakin' church. The flags themselves seemed to disappear when he touched them - probably for the best because he'd lost count of how many he had collected, but Lucy said the synch ratio was increasing, and so he stopped listening to the old fart and kept wandering.

There was a third type of flag, too, black Latin cross on white. Desmond didn't recognize it but shrugged his shoulders, figuring he would never understand _all_ of it.

Eventually, though, even if it was in the construct of his own mind, Desmond needed to rest, and so he sat down on a bench and stretched his legs, rolling his shoulders and wondering wh _at those two Knights were whispering about so conspiratorially._

* * *

Altair sat in the square in front of Saint John's Gate, looking around. The fellow assassins he'd brought with him were high-ranked apprentices or solid journeyman, and they were around him in the square as well, hidden in crowds or shadows, waiting for him. There were five total, all agreed upon by Rauf and Farasat on being ready to go back to the field and level-headed enough to be able to handle the chaos that Acre was still shifting through. Jabal would likely scold him for bringing people without Al Mualim's permission, but Altair could not let the wizened _rafiq_ work with so few in so vital a city any more.

** However, he had to  ** _ get _ ** them to the Bureau first. And while they were all clearly accomplished at hiding in plain sight, that did not change the fact that the guards were looking for "the main in the white hood". Altair was willing to let himself be seen, but not those he had dragged along with him. So he needed to stay out of sight and unnoticed. Posture helped in that regard, as did the large travel pack he carried that held the gear of half of those he'd brought with him. None had noticed him yet, and he intended to keep it that way. **

So for now, he waited, letting the guards get used to a heavily-laden scholar taking a break before getting back to work. No swords to be seen, no knives, just a man wilting in the humid air and resting.

But a pair of guards across the square was catching Altair's attention. They were grumbling and complaining. Gossiping as almost every person across the world seemed to do. But what they were saying was starting to catch Altair's ears.

A dark haired guard sighed deeply. "It's getting worse."

The lighter haired guard nodded. "His paranoia knows no bounds."

"He's doubled our shifts. No on sleeps!"

"Wasn't so bad until he made the port his home!"

Altair wondered whom they were speaking of. The mention of paranoia reminded him of a letter he had read when searching out William. It made mention of a man becoming unhinged in the harbor. And that letter had been in the hands of a Templar.

Perhaps these two spoke of Sibrand. Altair's hood and pack hid his smile.

"He's planning something at sea," the dark haired guard offered. " _That's_ why he came here." From behind the pair a man in chain mail and a white smock bearing a black cross over his left shoulder was marching up, eyes darting swiftly around and slicked-back pale hair giving him a harsh, cold look.

"Planning _what_?" the other guard asked.

"What is the meaning of this?" the approaching man shouted. "Two of you off in a corner, _whispering, PLOTTING_?"

Ah, the paranoid man of which the guards where speaking. How interesting.

"Nothing of the sort!' the dark haired guard replied. "We were only-"

"Only _what_? What secrets are you keeping?" the unstable man replied harshly.

"You misunderstand!" the guard protested.

" _Damned assassins_!" the cold man screamed. "They're probably here right now watching us!"

Then this was indeed Sibrand. Altair memorized the face, looking at the quiver by his right shoulder and sword-belt. An archer like Talal, but no bow. And Altair could not stop the smile that spread wide across his face. Indeed, assassins were listening. Six, in fact.

"Do you find this amusing?" Sibrand screamed about, stalking around the square. " _Do you_? Well laugh while you can!" he rounded to the pair of guards once more. "Double the patrols!"

"Which ones?" asked the lighter-haired guard who had been wisely silent till this point.

" _All of them_!" Sibrand shouted.

"But we don't have the men!" the other guard replied, face stunned.

" _Find_ them! Recall our knights from the field if you have to!" Sibrand hissed before stalking off.

The two guards looked at each other helplessly before scurrying off to obey their insane master.

Altair was tempted to go after Sibrand at that moment. The crazed Teutonic Knight was alone and had only his own sword to protect him. But Altair had five other assassins that needed to get to Jabal. Likely when he next saw the Teutonic Knight, he'd have guards around him. The man seemed convinced of conspiracies against him, and while it was true that Altair and the assassin's were out to get him, putting more poorly trained guards did not seem the wisest course of action to take.

Paranoia indeed.

Altair remained seated for another hour before standing, hefting the large pack onto his back and starting to walk further into the city. The others followed one-by-one, either on parallel streets, or further back from him.

One senior journeyman, however, walked up to stand beside him.

"Was that your target?"

Altair nodded, shifting the weight of his pack.

"And you let him go?"

"The brotherhood always comes first."

The journeyman shook your head. "You have indeed changed, Master Altair."

"I care not what others think," Altair said once more.

With a shrug, the journeyman wandered off to a stall, looking like he'd never even spoken with Altair.

They arrived at the Bureau and Altair's fellow assassins started to mingle about the square. Altair himself climbed the ladder and entered the Bureau.

"Greetings, Altair," Jabal offered from where he was weighing small bags of something. "What news?"

Altair bowed his head. "Al Mualim has named another. Calls himself Sibrand."

The _rafiq_ straightened. "I am familiar with the man. Newly appointed leader of the Knights Teutonic, he resides in the Venetian Quarter and runs Acre's port."

"I'll start my work at once," Altair replied. "However..."

Jabal raised an eyebrow. "However?"

"I have two good apprentices and three solid journeyman who wish to speak with you for assignment."

Jabal's eyes widened and his face slackened. "You... what?"

Altair stepped out to the courtyard and whistled, looking to the journeyman who had spoken with him earlier and nodded. "Five assassins," Altair answered, turning to the _rafiq_ once more. "All of whom are ready to help you rebuild."

"Al Mualim has sent no word..."

Altair shrugged. "I said that if I came here again I would bring others to help you. Yes, it will take time to acclimate them and settle them, but it will be a start."

Jabal's eyes narrowed. "But the Master did not order this, did he?"

"The Master has been locked in his library for months, going over the Templars and their convoluted plots. I merely took some initiative."

An apprentice dropped down from the roof and came in, pulling down the scarf that covered his face and smiling. "Greetings, _rafiq_. I am Omar and I am at your disposal."

Jabal still looked stunned. The next two hours had the assassins dropping into the Bureau, slowly filtering in and talking to the _rafiq_ of their skills, what they were good at, what still needed work, and how to best use them and what their cover should be. It was almost night when Jabal, with Altair's help, squared them all away down below the Bureau, to start their placements the next day.

"...Altair?" Jabal said quietly.

"Yes, _rafiq_?"

"I owe you an apology."

"For what?" Altair could not understand whatever for. Jabal had never wronged him in any way.

"For doubting your dedication to our cause," Jabal looked down to his scrolls.

Altair looked down as well before shaking his head. "No," he said firmly, if quietly. "It was I who erred. I believed myself above the Creed. You owe me nothing."

"As you wish my friend. Here are the places you should focus your search for Sibrand: On the docks east of here among the ships and their crews. At the chapel to the northeast near the cross overlooking the port. And to the north, in front of Saint John's Gate."

"This is most helpful," Altair replied. "My thanks for the guidance." With night having fallen, Altair settled himself to the cushions of the courtyard, looking up to the stars.

The following morning, he awoke with the sun. Jabal was already up and talking with James, a journeyman of mixed heritage, like Altair, though only a grandfather was Saracen. Altair stepped in only long enough to nod to Jabal.

"Go in safety," Jabal called as Altair climbed and headed out to start his investigations.

On the streets once more, Altair made his way east. Jabal had provided a fresh map for him, after explaining what had happened to his previous sketches and Altair decided to start exploring the docks for information. With so many ships coming and going for both dropping off supplies and troops and taking wounded home, he had no doubt that there would be a plethora of information, not only on Sibrand, but also on Richard and Salah ad-Din.

The square in front of the entrance to the docks was a thriving market, with many different languages shouting out to come and look at various wears. Also surrounding the docks and market were thugs and drunkards. Sailors loved their ale, after all, since they couldn't keep water fresh for their long voyages. Similar to Damascus, patrols pounded around the city wall, armed and looking suspiciously at anyone and anything. Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Altair stood in a fish monger's line, listening and looking.

A pair of servants caught his eye as they came through the gate to the port, both looking weary and speaking German.

"He's done. Moved the last of the foodstuffs onto his ship this morning."

"How much is that?" the other asked. "I've never had to move so much food at once before!"

"Enough for several weeks, I can tell you that," the first replied, rubbing a shoulder.

"What's he planning I wonder..."

"Perhaps he intends to flee. Something's got him very scared. Anyway, I must be off. He asked that I deliver a letter to a courier at Saint John's Gate. Best not keep him waiting."

A letter? Altair looked over the fish closely, before shaking his head and trailing after the servant. It took longer than he would have liked to pick the letter, as the servant seemed nervous, constantly looking over his shoulder and pausing to look around.

Still, Altair had been trained by Farasat, the best pickpocket the Order had ever seen. The difference of time was mere moments and soon Altair was leaning out over a sea wall, reading the letter.

_Master:_

_The situation here is dire. Stories of the Assassins and their evil deeds continue to plague me. Our losses at their hands have been substantial - both in Acre and our other holdings. I fear they come for me next. I have asked my men to increase their patrols throughout the city (and especially the docks), but they have proven quite resourceful. Can I even trust my men? How many of them might be in league with our enemy?_

_I have made plans to move to sea. As soon as she is ready, I intend to board my ship and be away. It is, perhaps, the safest course of action. Surrounded by water, and guarded by my most loyal men, it will be difficult for anyone to approach unseen. Should you have further orders for me, now would be the time to deliver them, before my ship arrives._

_Yours in Peace,_

_Brother S._

It seemed Sibrand's paranoia was indeed making him mad. Doubting his own men? A journeyman might pay off a guard or use secrets in order to go after another low-ranked guard, but for someone of Sibrand's power, someone who led and was seen by many and recognized, such tactics rarely worked. A skilled assassin would instead use stealth and speed.

The increase of men would be both a hindrance and a help. With so many looking for his white hood, Altair would have to be extra careful. But with so many patrols in the area, they'd be tripping over themselves and could be easily distracted by decoys. Sibrand's earlier claim that they should pull men from the field would never happen. Richard wouldn't allow it. So only the guards within the city would be an issue.

The move to sea, however, was worrisome. Altair truly couldn't approach a ship once it was out in the Mediterranean. Not without being seen from miles away. He'd need to act quickly. Once more he was racing against time to get to his target. He'd need to get Sibrand within the next two days before his ship set sail. For while the food might be aboard, Altair doubted that the men, themselves, were ready. Sibrand would have only decided this the previous day, and as such, his "most loyal" still needed to be gathered and seen to.

With a silent growl, Altair walked down to the docks and started looking around, seeing the small fishing boats a port would always be full of and walking along the rougher crowds, populated with thugs itching for a fight. Altair stayed to the shadows, looking out at the harbor and studying its layout as he worked north, under the rising city cliff. Out in the harbor, he was pleased to note only one ship that could carry the number of men Sibrand's letter implied and from the look of all the sailors scurrying about, it wasn't ready for sail yet. Indeed, the sails looked to still be in the process of being re-sewn and checked for rips.

Three days at most then.

It was still far too rushed.

He leaned against the city wall, looking out to the ship from his small telescope, and tried to study. But a voice overhead was starting to distract him.

"The Acre port is now under the jurisdiction of Master Sibrand, exalted leader of the Knights Teutonic. All crew members are to be turned over to the order for conscription into the fleet!"

Sibrand was in charge of the ports? That made sense if he was hiding here, and preparing to escape by sea. Craning his neck up, he tried to ascertain where the voice was coming from. The seawall was enormous here, stretching up somewhere over a hundred feet; there was a small stage up there with a Christian cross, where the man was making his announcements. Nodding, Altair looked around for a way to get up there. He wouldn't have to backtrack all the way to the entrance of the port, would he? The assassin made his way northeast, following the seawall to see if there was another gate to the city. He rounded the corner of a building, however, and found something very different: a Templar standing guard in a shadowy corner, under an unused scaffold.

Ducking back around a corner, Altair took a moment to plan his attack. He couldn't just _leave_ the Templar, if his assault was to be on the docks as he suspected he did not need trained eyes to spot him. Frowning, Altair climbed up to the roof, laying down and assessing his options. He couldn't see the Templar from here because the scaffold blocked his view. Would that prove true for him? Taking an educated guess, Altair leapt up to the scaffolding. Beyond it was a partially demolished base of the tower leading up to a parapet. The assassin made the leap easily, landing on silent feet. With the deep shadows the Templar didn't even notice, and after that it was easy work to climb down and stab the knight from behind, deep into the lung and giving a near bloodless death. After that, he threw the body over into the water and began the tedious backtrack to the port gates to find the town crier.

As Jabal has suggested, he was by a church overlooking the docks.

"As decreed, all ships must be turned over to the Teutonic Order. Complaints and concerns must be presented to the guild representative at the Court of the Chain. Failure to comply will result in imprisonment. By order of Sibrand all merchant vessels must be turned over to the Teutonic Order. Clear out your cargo, ship deeds must be presented to the Court of the Chain by midday tomorrow. No exceptions! No delays!"

This was interesting. Rumor amongst the people in the city was that the Teutonic Knights were in charge of collecting port tolls, nothing else; because they were so new. Sibrand seemed to be stretching his authority, or was there more that he did not know of?

Regardless, it bore questioning. He stood at a discreet distance, weary of two guards standing by the church.

"All dock vessels _must_ be cleared of crew and cargo! Captains are to present themselves to a representative from the Teutonic Order for reassignment. Any attempt to maintain possession of a claimed vessel will be punished severely!"

At last finished, the man took a breath and began walking from the stage. Altair did not give him the chance, instead marching right up to him. "You would take my ship?" he demanded in an almost loud voice, handing out a pretext. Then he rammed his fist into the man's face.

"Not again!" The herald said, bringing up a guard and managing to deflect the next punch. This man knew how to fight, even managed to land an excellent jab into Altair's shoulder and then his jaw, before the assassin threw caution to the wind and fought outright, as he had with Abbas just a little while ago. Ending with a brutal elbow to the man's ribs, sending him skidding into the dirt, the crier relented.

"It's not my fault! I'm only following orders!" The man coughed. "If you want your ship back, speak with the _Court_!" He gestured wildly to Chain district.

"That's not what I'm after," Altair whispered in a soft voice, kneeling down to the man. A glance at the guards and seeing they had long lost interest in the fight. Altair helped the man up and began walking with him, a fist wrapped tightly around his arm.

The crier looked honestly confused. "Then what?"

"Sibrand's claimed near a hundred ships. For what purpose?"

Frowning, he answered, "A blockade. They're to sail to open water and establish a perimeter."

...That made no sense. A perimeter against what?

"For what?" Altair demanded quietly, rounding the corner of the church. There were no guards here, and so he stopped. "Does Salah ad-Din intend to strike from the sea?" He had heard nothing of the kind; all intelligence said the two armies were massing south of here, toward Arsuf.

"No! It's not he we defend against, but ships from home! To deny Richard more troops."

That made even less sense. "Why would one of Richard's own seek to weaken him in this way?"

"I don't know," the crier said, shaking his head. "Ask Sibrand. They're his orders, I'm just meant to carry them out! Now please, let me go! I've told you all I know."

... Altair hesitated. The man was no threat on his own, he had spoken honestly and without hesitation, but now he knew that one was here asking about Sibrand. "You can tell no one of what has transpired," he said slowly, cautiously.

"Sir, who would believe me? Besides, the knights never help when I am assaulted."

Altair let him go and shadowed him for the rest of the day, but the crier only went straight home, avoiding the knights patently. Altair still hesitated, and hoped he was a good judge of character. He stopped off at the Bureau and explained his dilemma to Jabal and asked if the man could be watched for a few days to ensure secrecy. Jabal gave an odd, knowing smile, and nodded.

" _Rafiq_ , what do you know of the Teutonic Knights? I know they formed recently; the people talk of their collecting port taxes. Is there more to them?"

"The one to ask is young Stephen," Jabal answered, still weighing things with his balance. "The knights have only recently received recognition from Pope Constantine, and rumor has it they follow the structure of the Templar Order. Beyond that, I do not know."

"Where is Stephen, usually?" Altair asked, remembering the eager but often self-doubting apprentice.

Jabal shrugged. "I asked not to be told of their safe houses during the siege so that I could not divulge it if captured. He speaks often of a choir, so I suspect he lives near a church, likely in the Venetian district. Though," he added, a frown bleeding through his grey beard, "I've not seen him for three days."

"Is he on assignment?" Altair asked.

"No, not since before the death of William of Montferrat. I've been using his memory for some of my older documents."

"Could he have been compromised? Hiding in one of his safe houses?"

Jabal rubbed his beard, thinking. "It is unlikely. Aside from your own work, there has been little need to be as visible as we were during the siege, and the guards' memories have been dimming for some time. I've not had to order an assassination since before your last visit; in light of that, I don't know how he could have been exposed."

Another mystery that none of them needed. "I'll look for him in the morning," Altair said, rubbing his face. "Would any of the others know where his safe house is?"

"I will ask," the _rafiq_ said, lifting the trap door on the floor behind the counter. "Rest, Altair. You likely have a long day ahead of you."

The day dawned bright and clear, and Altair got up quickly, hoisting himself out of the building and merging into minimal early morning crowds, keeping his posture unnoticeable and giving the throngs of guards a wide berth. He made his way into the rich Chain district, trying to remember where the chapel of Brother Jacob was, a priest whom he and Stephen had helped on Altair's last trip here, and who had in turn given him cover when he was escaping William's citadel. Finding it, he put up with the suspicious stares of the priests and monks while he waited for the perennially curious Jacob to appear.

"Oh, it's you!" he said brightly when he appeared. "You're Stephen's brother, I remember!"

"So you know this _Saracen_?" one of the other priests asked, using the name like a slur.

"Don't be daft," Jacob said in a dismissive tone, "He's only half Saracen, and he and his brother saved me earlier this year; the pair of them are better Christians than you are with your suspicious gaze and dark heart. One must learn to turn the other cheek, as our Lord did, remember? No? Bah, I'll not deal with your narrow mind right now." The old man touched Altair's arm and gestured that they leave. Once they were out in the street Jacob made an impolite noise. "They all think me a heretic for reading the Quoran, that I do the Devil's work, God forbid. Ah, but I doubt you're here to learn of my petty trials of faith, what can I do for you, friend?"

Altair had spent all night remembering the lies and covers he and Stephen had told the man. "I have been on assignment for many weeks," he said, "And I never had much time to get to know the city. It would appear I am lost, and I do not know where my brother's home is."

Jacob looked at Altair before putting a gentle hand on his arm. "My poor child, forced to work so hard because of your cursed heritage. Of course I'll help you. Your younger brother is doing well here, I should say. He's part of a church near the docks; he helps the priests there when the seamen are at port and causing trouble. Bright lad, and a good Christian, as you are of course."

Altair nodded and listened, keeping his eyes open. Two men in white were less visible than one, but he saw more than a few guards eye the pair wearily, and the assassin kept his posture hunched, deferential, powerless. The guards all turned away after a time.

"He works with those German knights now," Jacob was saying. "Did you know they ran a hospital during the siege? A far cry better than what they do now, let me tell you. But young Stephen, he's nothing if not earnest; I like him very much. He's a good boy."

The pair walked in the shadow of a large church - though that was relative, with the massive Church of the Holy Cross over in the Chain district dominating the entire city, and Jacob knocked on a door, part of a long row of houses. Altair noted that this part of the district, much like the Hospitalier district to the northwest, had suffered from the siege as two doors down a building had the telltale signs of fire damage. Jacob knocked again, and for fifteen minutes the pair waited, but no one came.

"He must be at work, then," Jacob said. "At least you know where the house it. You might try the docks, see if you can find him."

"I understand. Thank you."

"No problem at all! A man saves my life it's the least I can do. May God help you in finding him, child. I've not heard from him myself, if I don't hear from you, I'll help in the search."

Altair waited until the old monk disappeared down the street before pulling out his map. He wasn't as near the docks as he had initially thought, and after spending time there yesterday and not seeing the journeyman he doubted the boy was there now. There was another building, perhaps a church, nearby. Altair would begin his search there. Nodding, the assassin continued walking down the row of houses. Walking by a partially demolished wall, he heard a soft groan. Frowning, he walked behind the wall.

Stephen lay there, curled and slumped in a corner, moving slightly.

Altair allowed himself only a split second of shock before plunging into the shade of the wall, turning the apprentice over to get a better look. There were no injuries that he could tell, no blood and no bruising on the exposed skin. What had happened? The boy's face was flushed, and his eyes dilated. Altair slapped the apprentice, trying to get his attention.

 **"** Ah Altair," Stephen said slowly, focus difficult for him. "Demons are after me."

"Don't talk like that," the assassin said.

"No, you don't understand... Demons with a black cross." His head lolled to the side, energy spent as his dilated eyes continued to roll around. "The sailors, they were drinking... I thought it was only water... then..." He frowned, trying to focus. Altair tried to think - how long ago had this occurred? Whatever poison Stephen had ingested, was it still in his stomach, should he make the boy retch, or would that only do more damage? The assassin couldn't remember the protocol for this; Malik was always better with the sciences.

"Stephen, when was that?" Altair demanded.

The boy appeared not to hear him. "The demons... They want me dead. _Me_!" He moaned, deep in his throat, a pitiful sound. "Can you imagine?"

"But _why_? What did you do?"

"I... I think I was trying to pickpocket," Stephen said, weakly dragging a hand to his face. "Everything kept tilting... I thought it was one of the _rafiq's_ tests... It tasted just like water, but the incense was so _strong_... maybe it was hashish...? You see them; tell them to go away."

"Who? The sailors? Or the knights?" Black crosses could only be Teutonic Knights.

"... But use your blade. It's the only language demons understand. Please... come back as fast as you can."

"Will you be alright by yourself?" Altair asked, uncertain if it was wise for him to leave the apprentice.

"I... I think so. There are fewer of you now..."

Altair grimaced, his head dipping down, before he stood up to his full height and marched out into the square. Demons with black crosses? He would have to deal with it quickly. The square in front of the partial wall had a freestanding portico in the middle of it, offering shade for later in the day when the sun pounded everything down with late summer heat. Narrow trees stood at each corner of the square, and two beggars darted about the crowds, pleading for coin. There were also the Teutonic guards, of course, and Altair closed his eyes and asked the eagle in his mind to lend its eyes to him. He would want to find these targets quick _ly this is so freakin' cool how he sees the world like t_ his.

One guard was pacing about, separate from the others, in a helmet and looking at the shrubbery lining the back of the church, trying to spot something. He was the first Altair killed, a quick puncture of his hidden blade up and through a lung, the almost bloodless death the assassin preferred. Without pause he marched around the corner of the church and almost immediately found another guard patrolling about, clearly looking for someone. Altair calmly walked up to him and stabbed him deep in the abdomen and continued walking without even breaking stride. Stephen plagued his mind, and it quickened his steps.

No one was at the front of the church, but Altair's eagle did spy a third one along northwest wall, and he was quickly dispatched. Though he hoped it was enough, he doubted it. Sibrand's paranoia would infest the guards, making them attack in larger groups. Stephen had likely disturbed an entire patrol. Frowning, he exited to the back of the church square where he started, and pulled out his map briefly. They would not spread themselves too thin, likely they would meet up at a major road... there. Altair took a narrow alley and rounded a building to a main road. One patrol in tight formation marched down the street just in front of Altair, as did an extra guard in a helmet that kept looking left and right, looking for someone.

This would prove more difficult. The patrol had their swords out, no doubt at Sibrand's orders, and his target stayed close to them. Clever, perhaps, but not permanent. Altair kept well back, waiting and following and waiting. It took almost an hour for the knight to feel secure enough to detach himself from the patrol, turning at a square. The assassin wasted no time, stabbing him in the back with the hidden blade and disappearing up some steps and down another street. He had been gone from Stephen for too long, he did not want to think about how the boy had come to suffer.

A fifth target all but ran into Altair, the two rounding a corner at the same time. The assassin darted away swiftly, not realizing at first, until he saw the guard eye an alley, clearly debating on whether to enter it or not. Altair killed him and hoped it would be enough, backtracking and taking the risk to climb to the roofs and duck the ridiculous number of archers to make his way back to the sickly apprentice. He was forced to use two throwing knives before he found the right row of houses and made his way down. He had been gone two hours, it was mid morning.

Stephen was sitting straight, still flushed but his color underneath it looked better.

"You are back...?" the boy asked, his words sounding clearer.

Altair nodded.

"And the demons?"

"Dead."

"The demons are back in hell!" he smiled, weakly, and gave an unearthly giggle. "I am a saved man. Thank you, Master, thank you."

"Can you stand?" the assassin asked. "You should get to the Bureau, the _rafiq_ can summon a doctor."

"Yes, I think that is for the best..."

It took some effort, but Stephen was able to get his feet under him. His steps were unsteady, however, so Altair slung an arm around his shoulders. The walk back to the Bureau was tedious, the boy needing to stop at several alleys to empty his stomach, and it was almost noon when Altair finally was able to drag the boy to the roof and catch him as he all but fell into the Bureau.

One of the new apprentices was at the desk, and he quickly disappeared down the trap door to get Jabal.

"What happened?" the old man demanded, coming up and quick to inspect Stephen.

"I'm not completely certain," Altair said. "He said something about sailors and drink and incense. Perhaps the concoction Garnier was using on his patients has leaked out to the public."

"I thought it was water," Stephen said slowly, still sick. "And the incense didn't smell right... Then the demons..."

Jabal shook his head, summoning an apprentice Altair did not recognize, sending him off to get a doctor. "Not more of your Christian hellfire and damnation, boy. I would have thought you knew better by now."

"Whatever he saw in his fevered visions, he did manage to get a patrol of the city guard after him," Altair explained. "I only found five, but they at least are dead, and when word spreads to the remaining they will fear continuing the search."

"That cannot be guaranteed," Jabal countered, looking into Stephen's eyes and checking his pulse. "We must assume he's been compromised and send him back to Masyaf."

"But..." Stephen started to say.

"We'll make do," Jabal said, brooking no argument. "Let's get you to a room. The doctor is going to charge a fortune for this..."

Altair helped the two, going through the trap door and down a small tunnel to the building complex north of them, settling the apprentice onto a pallet and cushions. Jabal, much more experienced, stayed with him and Altair waited at the counter until word that the doctor had arrived reached him. When one of the new journeymen took his place, Altair once more took to he streets. His first stop was to the small stage by the church, overlooking the docks. With his telescope, he spied the movement around Sibrand's ship, estimating how much time he still had. He studied the guard patrols in the afternoon light, trying to assess how many men he would have to sneak through. Sibrand's paranoia was a hindrance in that respect, there were so many wandering around Altair sighed at the thought of how difficult the assault would be.

He studied until the sun was so low behind the city walls he could no longer see. Frowning, he made his way back to the Bureau, dissatisfied with how little he had to show for his work.

Stephen was up and about, though very sickly, when Altair came back.

"Should you be up?" he asked.

The boy smiled. "The doctor explained that all anyone could do was wait for it to work through my body. I was feeling better when you returned, and was better still when the doctor arrived, which means I am on the mend." He sat heavily into the cushions of the courtyard, looking up at the dying daylight. "I am a fool," he sighed. "Perhaps I have no place in the Brotherhood."

Altair frowned, sitting by the boy. "What drives you to say that?"

"Is it not obvious?" Stephen asked, pulling his gaze away from the sky above the latticework and to the assassin. "I am a failure in almost all that I do. Twice now you've had to save me because I was too conspicuous to the city guards. I somehow allowed myself to be poisoned, and interpret Teutonic Knights as demons. Can you not see how pathetic I am?"

The assassin stared at the boy for a long, long time.

Finally, he said, "I see a boy who is likely not fit for field work, but I also see a boy whose perfect recall will be nothing but an asset to the Order. Even the _rafiq_ uses your mind to store information or remember where things are placed. Imagine using such a skill in interpreting finances or decoding letters. You are not a failure."

Even in the dim light, Altair could see the apprentice flush in embarrassment. He blinked several times before looking away. Nodding to himself, Altair took his cue and went into the Bureau, seeing a game of chess being played and deciding to watch it.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another AC fic is in the works. After playing Revelations we just weren't satisfied with the 30-year jump and decided to, er, "add more scenes." Those will be put up when we're done with this.
> 
> And so another investigation begins, and we finally find an excuse for the flags; Desmond has to do something to stall, and the flags made for the perfect distraction. Lucy will encourage it, of course, and Vidic, well... :D One can expect the flags to pop up again, too.
> 
> As for the investigation itself, the informant missions are quickly becoming the most interesting. Stephen's assignment always made us scratch our heads, why would someone in an openly agnostic cult talk about black demons? We really weren't sure how to make that work until the idea of Garnier's poison hit us, and then it all clicked together. It's also a great way to show of how Altair's changed, here and in his next informant investigation.
> 
> Next chapter: "he" finally gets a name, even if he still is a bitter sarcastic guy. And of course, the death of a Knight. Happy New Years!


	20. Death of a Knight

At dawn the next morning, Altair took a precious sip from his water-skin and ate some bread. He would have to work very quickly to finish his investigation. He knew where Sibrand would be but he needed to figure out the best route in getting to the ship. The docks were all but crawling with patrols, and he would have to be most careful.

"Master, a moment."

Altair turned to see Stephen, still wan but looking but better than he had the day before. "Here is something for you. I don't know how I got it, but I am sure it will help you fight other 'demons' that populate Acre."

The assassin unrolled the parchment to see a map of the docks, and more importantly, guard locations and patrol routes. He looked up, trying to ascertain how the boy had managed to pilfer this in his poisoned state unless... the reason the patrol was after him. He grinned, nodding his thanks.

Stephen grinned as well. "Now I must go back to Masyaf to cleanse my soul," he said. "You've given me much to think on, and while my face is forgotten here I will be making good use of my time."

"Safety and peace, then, brother."

"Safety and peace, Master."

Altair left the Bureau, mindful to look for unwanted eyes before taking to the streets and blending into the crowds. There was a fortress to the northeast, past the stage and cross overlooking the port, by a city gate. It was likely the Teutonic base, and Altair wanted to see what he could learn from it. He walked slowly into the Venetian district, taking one of the main roads and letting the crowds take him to the gate.

The sun had just crested the city walls when he heard a distinctly familiar voice.

**"** Did they let you into the city or did you fight your way in?"

Altair had come to know that snide, judgmental tone. He turned and stepped into the shadow of a small alley, looking at the journeyman whose name he still could not recall. He had little time for veiled insults and flag runs and vague hints of minimal help. The assassin glared at the journeyman, waiting.

To his surprise, the journeyman lowered his eyes and his tone change. "Ah... Perhaps I should be more respectful as I, myself, now require your help."

"... What?" Altair demanded, uncertain his ears were working.

The journeyman glared, puffing himself up for another snide comment but quickly deflated, sighing. "I spent much time in the harbor brothel last night and insulted a Teutonic Knight's wife - or so I am told," he added, rubbing the side of his head. "Now there is a group of them after me."

"Were you drunk?" Altair asked. Another case of drugging, like Stephen? The informant seemed well, though, healthy.

"Do not treat me like a novice," the journeyman said, pride filling his eyes. "I am not so stupid."

"And yet you were in a brothel."

"I have a contact there," he hissed, defensive. "I would ask another if I could but these three are good. Now, could you give me a hand or a blade?" He crossed his arms, once more looking arrogant. "If you return before I leave the city, I will give you the benefit of my wisdom."

Altair took a deep breath through his no _se don't do it, let the bastard cook in his own fire, stupid pri_ ck and grit his teeth. The third tenant of the Creed: Do not compromise the Brotherhood. "Come with me," he said.

The informant balked. "What?"

"I do not know what these three look like. You will identify them for me."

"I must prepare to leave the city."

"No," Altair said, "You must help a brother." He would be damned if he let this man just dump his problem upon the assassin and then escape without giving whatever threadbare hint he could. Altair had paid his debt, had groveled and taken the abuse as he was supposed to, but he would _not_ kill for this man without knowing his back would be covered. It was the least the journeyman could do for him.

He watched as the journeyman flinched at his presence, before sighing and nodding. Altair would only admit to himself that he felt some pleasure in it. The thought gave him pause, but he pushed it aside for reflection later.

Together, the two exited the alley and entered the square in front of the gate, and Altair began his work. "What is your name?" he asked in a low voice, walking through the throngs of people looking for Teutonic guards.

"Even after all of this you still do not remember?"

"I apologize," Altair said, spying one guard. The journeyman gave confirmation and Altair danced his way around a beggar before sliding his blade into the guard. The two walked away as the dead man stumbled, groaning, as he fell. "I have tried several times but cannot remember your name."

"What happened here?"

"Damn, where are you?"

Guards had already found the body. The two quickly ducked into the front courtyard of the fortress Altair had initially been trying to get to. It was silent, but for one knight walking toward them. The assassin saw his companion stiffen and Altair ran at the man, full tilt, leaping up and plunging his blade into the man's neck, but not without a startled cry. Snarling, he beckoned the journeyman to follow, darting deeper into the narrow courtyard and then leaping over a wall. To their luck, a haystack lay beyond, and the two ducked into it, waiting.

"Motaz," the journeyman said.

Altair nodded; glad to have a name at last. Motaz shook his head, looking away.

They waited perhaps twenty minutes before leaving the haystack. Altair peaked over the stone wall to see the body had been removed. That meant their work had been discovered, they would have to be quick or the third guard would run. They worked their way back to the front of the fortress and the large square in front of it, trying to assess where to go. They worked through several streets, circling around slowly, before once more reentering the square in front of the fortress.

"There," Motaz said, "coming up the main steps."

Altair nodded and departed, circling around until he was behind the man, his hidden blade doing its job. When he returned, the journeyman was nowhere in sight, and it took over an hour to find the man. When he did, he discovered that the informant had a satchel with him and bound for the city gate. He had intended to leave without Altair's knowing?

Worse, he was utterly unapologetic.

"You are a lucky man," he drawled, "You are alive and I am still in Acre."

"In spite of your best efforts, no doubt," Altair said in cold tones.

Motaz shrugged. "Here is what I have to tell you: The only thing more dangerous than a drunken sailor is one who is also angry. I know it does not seem like much," he added, his tone once more condescending, "but with your wisdom, I'm sure it will help."

"Does the _rafiq_ know of your departure?"

"No, if you would be so kind as to tell him?" he said, sneering.

Altair reminded himself not to punch the man. The assassin could remember all too well the consequences of the time _he_ had left with no word to the _rafiq_ , and even now he was still paying for it. That Motaz held the same level of arrogance, holding himself above those who knew the city best... and he did not even see it. Altair wondered how anyone had managed to put up with him when he had been like that. He once more reminded himself not to punch the man. "The least you could do, _brother_ , is help Stephen as he makes for Masyaf as well."

Motaz frowned. "Stephen? What happened to him?"

"He was poisoned, and he was compromised. He is still recovering, he will need help in the journey back to Masyaf." It was late morning now; he did not have the time for this! "Believe me or not, but at least have the decency to let Jabal know he is down yet another man. Will you go?"

Motaz gave a long, calculating glare. "I will go," he said.

"Good, then I will not keep you," and Altair spun on his heel and made his way back to the cross overlooking the docks.

The map Stephen had received proved to be accurate - Altair's biggest worry, the patrol routes were exactly as listed, and the assassin sighed in relief that it was not a fake. It did, however, raise another worry, because as he watched he saw the northern end of the docks were virtually unmolested by the troops, and he did not know why. Was it a trap, set up by the paranoid Sibrand to lure out the assassin? The German did not seem to have that level of foresight, but then the last time Altair was able to easily access a target was Talal, and that had turned into a disaster. Frowning, he decided to head down to the docks and see for himself.

He ate some trail mix as he walked, and took another small sip of his precious water. The heat was pressing down on everyone in the early afternoon light, and the humidity made everything sticky and uncomfortable. The closer he got to the gates the more and more merchant stands appeared, buyers and sellers yelling at each other for attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've gone mad! For today only, I've decided to reduce prices on everything! By half!"

"Fresh fish, brought in just an hour ago!"

"The finest wares in all the land!"

"Come, come, see what I have to offer!"

"You are wise, which is why you've come to me. I've the best deals in all the land!"

"You tell him I said no! I won't have you damn soldiers poking about in my business."

Altair perked, turning to find the source of the bitter voice. He saw an old man, balding with a snow-white beard, gesturing violently to a Teutonic Knight, another standing at his shoulder. At his feet was a small cloth covered in plates, likely his wares. A merchant then.

"Listen here old man," the guard said in a menacing tone.

"No, you listen to me! This is my property, not his! I don't care if Christ himself put the man in charge."

"He isn't asking," the soldier said, the other at his shoulder till reticent. "It's an order."

The old man's response was to laugh. "Oh, that's rich. The man couldn't order his way out of a burlap sack! I've seen the mess he's made of the docks." He chuckled again. "I won't let him ruin mine!"

The guard took one menacing step forward, and the defiant old man held his ground. The guard didn't seem to quite know what to do, so he said, "Just read the letter. You'll see his terms are quite generous."

"I grow tired of this," the bald merchant said, stroking his bear. "Look, I'll consider what he has to offer, but I doubt it'll change my mind! Now go on! Get out of here!"

Altair decided he liked the old man; there were few indeed that could, let alone would, stand up to one of Richard's soldiers, and to have that kind of cheek was worthy of respect. In deference to that, he decided not to simply pick the man's pocket. Instead, he walked up to the merchant and studied his wares.

"What would you like friend?" the bald man asked.

"The letter you were just ordered to read," Altair answered, never looking up from his examination of plates. Their designs were cheaply painted, but the clay used was good quality.

"You've bad eyes, friend, if you think what's in front of you is a letter."

Altair dropped several coins into one of the plates. "The letter."

"As you wish, my Lord," the man said, after biting the coins and checking their weight. He fished the parchment out of the purse on his belt and held it to the assassin. "Now I can say I never got the chance to read it."

"Safety and peace, friend."

"Aye, wherever a body may find it," the man nodded, before turning and beckoning for another customer.

Altair took to the roofs, very wary of the ludicrous amount of archers adorning them, before darting his way to a sky garden and opening the letter. German was not his best language, and it took time to translate it.

_Occupant of the Northern Docks,_

_This will serve as your final warning._

_Under the order of the King, the Teutonic Knights have been given jurisdiction over Acre's Port and all immediate surroundings. "ALL IMMEDIATE SURROUNDINGS!" You have refused to relinquish the Northern Docks, denying access to my men, time and again. Such disobedience will not be tolerated._

_Accept the coin that's been offered to you in compensation and be on your way. Refuse and you will leave us no choice but to seize your property and bring charges for conspiring against the King. Such a crime is punishable by death!_

_When next we come, there will be no letters - only irons._

All at once the lack of presence on the northern docks made utter sense, and Altair knew exactly how his assault would go. Excellent. He pulled out his map and made some quick outlines and sketches. It was late afternoon now, and he doubted the ship would be docked tomorrow. He would have to hurry to the Bureau and collect his feather. Satisfied, he exited the garden after a guard passed and darted across the shadows of the rooftops, making his way back to the Bureau.

"Greetings, brother," Jabal said easily. He was leaning over another tome. "How fairs your search?"

"I've learned all there is to know about my target," Altair replied.

"Share your knowledge with me, then."

The assassin nodded. "Sibrand is said to be consumed by fear, driven mad by the knowledge that his death approaches. He has sealed the docks district, and now hides within waiting for his ship to leave."

The _rafiq_ frowned. "This will make things dangerous," he said. "Fear often heightens one's senses, his vigilance will make it difficult. I wonder how it is he learned of your mission."

Al Mualim had not shared what he knew with the _rafiq_? Any of them? Even Ibtisam seemed ignorant of the facts hidden behind these men. Why would the master hold back from those that did his work? Altair, he had a lesson to learn, there was logic in that, but what had Jabal or Ibtisam or especially Malik done to make him decide to withhold such information? He hesitated, choosing his words carefully out of deference to his master, but unable to leave the wizened old man guessing. "The men I've killed, they are all connected. Al Mualim warned me that word of my deeds had spread among them." He hoped that would be enough.

Jabal frowned; he, too, seemed concerned that he had not been told this as he reached under the desk to get the record book and pull out the feather.

"Be on your guard, Altair," Jabal said as he took the feather, his face worried.

"Of course, _rafiq_ ," the assassin said, "but I think it will be to my advantage. Fear will weaken him."

"That is also true, but be careful none the less."

"I will. I suspect his ship leaves tonight, and so I must go."

Jabal nodded, and Altair once more ascended to the roof. The sky was ablaze in the evening light, clouds streaking across the golden-orange sky as yellow tongues of fire. It was beautiful, if Altair was not so focused on reaching the docks.

Given the number of people that flowed in and out of the actual docks and the markets, it was simplicity to get down to the low stone structure that jutted out from the city's cliff-wall that held goods as they were unloaded from ships to the wooden docks. The sun was sinking closer and closer to the water out to the west, washing everything in gold. Altair eased through the crowds, hoping to get to the northern docks where there were fewer guards so that he might then swim to the only large ship in port where Sibrand was no doubt hiding.

To his irritation, however, the crowds were getting thicker as he got closer to the northern docks. Indeed, they seemed to be circled around something. This might be worrisome, so Altair eased through the crowds, wondering what spectacle was drawing the citizenry's eyes.

" _Liar_!" came a crazed cry that Altair recognized as Sibrand. He stiffened, pushing further forward but keeping hunched and low so that none would see him.

"That's Brother Phillipe!" was the familiar voice of Brother Jacob, the kindly priest who had sought to help him find Stephen.

Altair cursed. He hadn't sent word that he'd found the young apprentice and Brother Jacob had said that he would start searching if he did not hear.

He ducked through the crowds to his left and grabbed Jacob's arm, preventing him from going forward. "Hold," he said quietly. "There is nothing you can do. The madman has your Brother and going forward will only ensure our death. I have seen such paranoid deviants before, and they can _not_ be reasoned with."

Jacob looked over, his old face twisted in horror. "What? I don't _understand_!"

"You are _mistaken_ , Master Sibrand," Phillipe was saying, head bowed in respect, even as his knees shook clearly despite his long robes. "I would _never_ propose violence against _any_ being, c-c-certainly not against _you_!"

"So you say," Sibrand replied, the two sticking to Latin, the only language they seemed to share in common. He walked swiftly, constantly circling the white-clad priest, gesturing expansively. "And yet no one here will vouch for you! What am I to make of this?"

Jacob tried to move forward, but Altair held firm.

"Don't move unless you wish to die as well!" he hissed.

"But I _can_ vouch for him!"

"And that will convince him that you are a villain as well," Altair replied. "He has so convinced himself and not even an act of God can change his mind."

"I-I-I lead a _simple_ life, my Lord, " Phillipe replied, bowing again and trying to turn and keep an eye on the dizzying circles Sibrand kept walking, "as do _all_ men of the cloth. It is not for us to call attention to ourselves."

"Bad answer," Altair whispered.

"Perhaps," Sibrand said, stopping in his circling. For just a moment, he seemed sane and reasonable. Just a moment. He shoved Phillipe. "Or _perhaps_ they do not know you because you are not a man of God but an _assassin_!"

"Phillipe!" Jacob strained against Altair as the crowd gasped and pulled back.

"Never!" the priest replied, still on his knees and looking bewildered and shocked.

"You wear the same robes!" Sibrand accused.

"Is he blind!" Jacob gasped. "I do as well! The same as the other Brothers here!"

Altair glanced around the crowd and indeed; he did see other whites from Jacob's chapel. He shook his head. This man was too kind and generous, and it would result in this innocent Phillipe dying.

"If they cover themselves as we do," Phillipe pleaded, "it is only to instill uncertainty and fear! You must not give in!"

"Worse answer," Altair whispered, shaking his head. "Madmen will never hear reason."

"No!" Jacob moaned.

Sibrand's pale face turned red. "Are you calling me a _coward_?" he screamed, spittle ejecting from his mouth. "Challenging my authority?" He shoved the kneeling priest again. "Or are you, _perhaps_ , trying to turn my own knights against me?"

"No! No, no! No!" Phillipe pleaded again, raising his hands in defense. "I-I don't understand why-why you're _doing_ this to me, I've done _nothing_ wrong." Altair noted that despite the overpowering fear, Phillipe struggled to remain calm.

Sibrand was once more circling, and he gave an odd chuckle. "I don't recall accusing you of any wrong doing," he said calmly, once more appearing reasonable. "That makes your outburst rather odd." He lunged forward with another push. "Is it the presence of _guilt_ that compels a confession?"

Jacob was trying to struggle forward again, seeing that Phillipe was not going to escape this, and Altair held firm once again. He pulled and shook the kind-hearted priest. "Be _still_ ," he hissed. "Be still or the madman will kill you and all in your chapel as part of his deluded paranoia."

"But...!"

"Would you have more die?"

"No, but...!"

Altair thought of the Bible, the words within that were similar, yet not, with the Quoran, and sought to provide some sort of sense for Brother Jacob, before the kind old man made other innocent men die.

"Observe how the Devil works in the world. How he twists men's words and then closes their minds. You seek to learn and accept all, and Sibrand wishes only to control and deny. You work for God, he, the Devil. Even in moments of powerlessness, God provides a lesson for all."

"But I confess _nothing_!" Phillipe was pleading again from the circle Sibrand was walking.

"Ah!" Sibrand offered a cruel smile. "Defiant until the very end."

Phillipe paled. "What do you mean?"

Sibrand shrugged. "William and Garnier were too confident."

" _Garnier_?" Jacob hissed. "That _madman_!"

"And they paid for this with their lives," Sibrand was still speaking. "I _won't_ make the same mistake!" He was leaning forward over the helpless priest, all intimidation and screams of paranoia. "If you truly are a man of God, then surely the _Creator_ will provide for you!"

"God doesn't work like that!" Jacob hissed, tears leaking down his withered face.

"No, He does not," Altair agreed. "He gave us free will that we might learn the wisdom He teaches. Some, clearly, chose not to study."

"Let Him stay my hand!" Sibrand challenged.

Phillipe finally succumbed to fear. "You've gone _mad_!" He looked to the crowd, shouting for aide. "Will none of you come forward to stop this! He is clearly poisoned by his own fear! Compelled to see enemies where none exist!"

Sibrand pulled out his sword, the blade glinting gold in the setting sun, looking out to the crowd with cruelty and power.

Jacob struggled again, but all others ducked their heads, looking away.

"Most chose not to fight evil," Altair continued his whisperings in Jacob's ear. "They trust that others will so that they may not need to sacrifice. They chose to suffer through it to keep what they believe they have. They live their own lives without looking to the bigger world around them. So they bear not the courage to do what is just. You bear the courage to step forward, from God's grace, but you do not yet see a whole. You see one man whom you care for about to die."

"We can _stop_ it," Jacob hissed back.

"And where will that lead? Sibrand would see you as an ally to one he calls enemy. Doubly so for one such as me. And if his knights learn of your chapel, what then?"

"But this is not _right_!"

"In this we agree," Altair nodded, pulling Jacob back further. "Sibrand will pay."

"I do not seek revenge," Jacob replied automatically. "But..."

"But you see that if Sibrand continues to live, others will suffer."

" 'Thou shalt not kill.' "

"And what are people doing in the Holy Land other than killing? And in God's name, no less."

"I..."

"Nothing is true," Altair replied. "For all we see and hear as truth is distorted by the lens of our own experience and belief. Everything is permitted if we use the wisdom we have learned to temper ourselves and study what is right and what is wrong."

"What I do," Sibrand shouted in German with his sword held high, "I do for Acre!"

The sword came down in a swift clean strike. At his feet, Phillipe gave a low moan and lay still. Sibrand ran his glove along the blade, wiping off the blood and then sheathed his sword. He turned to crowds once more. "Stay vigilant, men. Report any suspicious activity to the guard. I doubt we've seen the last of these assassins!" he gestured to the downed priest. " _Persistent bastards_! Now get back to work!"

Sibrand grabbed a helmet from another Teutonic knight and donned it, its face almost a complete sheet of iron with six slits for sight and breath, with two curved horns above reaching to the sky. As he stalked off, two Teutonic knights lifted Phillipe's body by his hands and feet and dumped him into the harbor. Around them, the crowds hurriedly scattered in the golden light. Altair dragged Jacob with him to the northern docks, the Brother crying and almost limp.

Altair pitied him. Likely he had never seen what this war had caused, had never seen such a violent death before, serving the masses calmly from the chapel. It was amazing that a man of his age was taking the shock well enough to still be able to move. Once he was under the stage that the herald had been shouting from, Altair settled into the shadow of a building, blocking Jacob from sight.

"I... I... Oh Phillipe," Jacob sobbed again, rubbing at his face and eyes. "You..." he looked up. "You are an assassin."

Altair said nothing.

"You killed that crazed doctor Garnier, you killed the traitor William. Now you seek Sibrand."

He remained silent.

Jacob gave a bitter laugh. "Am I to die now? Now that I know your secret?"

"My quarrel is not with you or any who, like you, merely wish for people to accept one another and live in peace."

The old priest didn't seem to hear him. "Does this mean Stephen as well?"

Altair nodded. "He was poisoned. That was why we could not find him. I have been helping him through the fever and he will leave the city once he is able."

"The poor boy."

"What will you do, Brother Jacob?"

Fresh tears welled in his eyes as the priest sat on the ground, rubbing at his face again. "I don't _know_. I can't go to the chapel now. Not after seeing Phillipe die. I just _can't_."

Staying here would do him no good and if Sibrand's men found him sobbing here, their paranoia might make bizarre connections.

With a quiet sigh, Altair knelt down. "Do you trust that we assassins mean you no harm?"

"Ha! I don't know what to believe! You and young Stephen saved my life and asked for nothing in return. Yet you are killers! Yet..."

Altair waited.

Jacob shook his head. "Yet I've nowhere else to go..."

Altair nodded. That was likely all Jacob could process at this point. So he gave out a long, high whistle, almost like a screech of an eagle. Just as the sun was starting to touch the waves, Omar, a journeyman Altair had brought with him to Acre, slipped into the lengthening shadows.

"Safety and peace, Altair."

"Safety and peace," he replied, then nodded to Jacob. "He has seen much today and questions all. He has discerned that Stephen and I are part of the Brotherhood, and he has nowhere to go."

"Might I see young Stephen?" Jacob asked quietly. "He was always so in earnest. I'd like to hear his young enthusiasm again. Something that has hope for a future brighter than what I've seen this night."

"I will see to it," Omar nodded, helping up the exhausted priest. "Come, young Stephen has had much to say about your kindness. I think he'd like to see you as well."

Altair nodded to the both of them. "Safety and peace be upon you."

Omar echoed the greeting. Jacob simply paused and turned. "May God bless your blade."

Once they were gone, Altair turned to the dark waters that would hide his approach. He dived in si _lently, and started to swim._

"Dammit!" Desmond growled. He had reset back to the docks and it was once again high noon. "You just couldn't be bothered to look at _swimming_ , no, that was just _too_ much to ask."

" _Tut, tut, Mr. Miles. Just retrigger the memory_."

Right, like he'd be doing _that_.

Desmond turned and slowly climbed a building, then looked out over the docks. Off in the distance, he could see a rowboat being paddled towards the massive ship out near a stone structure that curved out into the harbor. Some sort of sea wall? Desmond wasn't sure.

Well, what better way to waste time than to explore?

He walked slowly through the crowds, keeping his hands clasped and his head down as he'd seen Altair do countless times, seeming as if in deep contemplation. The guard patrols walked by blankly, swords drawn. They paid no mind to Desmond, but he kept a wide berth, just to be safe. The stone wall looked more like a road, with low barriers on either side and wide enough for a couple horses side by side. There were giant, round, squat towers along it at even intervals, though Desmond didn't have a clue as to their purpose. Seeing no guards in immediate sight, he ambled down the stone road, liking how it curved out to the ship.

And, unsurprisingly, there was a guard at one of the round towers. So Desmond clasped his hands, lowered his head, and silently walked forward, seeing if he could get past the guard.

Frankly, he doubted he'd be able to.

He was right.

No sooner had his foot passed innocently then the guard started shouting German at him and shoving him before pulling out his sword. The guard on the other side of the tower turned at the commotion and drew his sword as well.

And, since he had a doctor he wanted to piss off, Desmond shouted, "Shit!" before taking off running. And, along the way, he plowed through a patrol, tripping spectacularly and landing and rolling across the cobblestone. More curses were thrown his way in German, French and an occasional English that he actually understood as he ran through the gate and into Acre proper.

Of course, he had nine guards after him and anyone that was just standing listlessly started to block his way. Desmond didn't particularly care to fight them. They were hardly drunkards in a barroom brawl and while Desmond had fought guards to enter Damascus waaaaay back when he was first trying to synch with that Tamir target, he didn't like the odds here for trying to survive.

All around him people were scramming and running as well and Desmond, on instinct, wished to start climbing. Of course, he didn't want to show off any skills at all to whoever was watching these sessions of his, so he stuck to ducking down alleys and side streets.

Turning a corner, Desmond was suddenly on the ground, having run into a crowded market area and was swiftly surrounded by guards.

Great. The one thing he didn't want.

Still, as long as it wasted time...

He pulled the long sword, trying to focus on the fact that this was a broom, not a sharp, pointy object.

Naturally, the fight didn't go well.

Desmond wasn't able to take down any of the - how many guards was this now? Seventeen? - guards that had gathered and followed him, and really, it was no surprise that he took blows almost as soon as he turned to face an incoming sword.

What _truly_ sucked, however, was that it _hurt_ dammit.

This was a freaking _construct_ , so why the _hell_ did it _hurt_ like _hell_ with every _damn_ blow? Was this like the Matrix? Was he going to be just as bruised and bloodied when he got out of the damn Animus? He better not!

" _Ow_!" Desmond cried out as a sword slashed down his back and for a brief moment, Desm _ond was thirteen and the patroller got the better of hi_ m and he rolled with the blow.

" _Watch it, Mr. Miles! Your synchronization ratio is going down with every blow!_ "

"Fuck you!" Desmond shouted back as a guard grabbed his harness and started to tug.

In this, at least, Desmond had a good idea of what to do. He grabbed the guy's fist, twisted, turning the patroller else the arm would break, and kicked the bastard right in the ass, sending him careening into a wall.

Another slash went down along his back, followed almost immediately by one to his front and Desmond ended up flat on the ground, looking up at the washed out sky and certain he saw stars. But another guard was stepping forward and Desmond stood as quickly as he could but it wasn't enough. A sword appeared in front of him, slashing down, and Desmond, for one terrifying moment, was convinced that he just died.

But he didn't.

Instead, he was in the foggy room of floating symbols. He quickly dropped to his knees and panted heavily.

"No way..." he muttered to himself, phantom pain working its way all along his torso. "No _fucking_ way!"

He was more than willing to waste Abstergo's time, but he was _not_ going to do it fighting guards.

Looking down at his hands, Desmond was almost surprised to see that his hands were shaking. It still felt like adrenaline was racing through his veins, and he kept trying to gulp down air.

" _Calm down, Desmond. It's all right. Your completely fine,_ " Lucy's voice was soft and soothing, but Desmond couldn't quite bring himself to believe her. Despite his shaking hands and rapid breathing, he was tearing at the long robes and many belts his avatar of Altair was wearing to try and see if there were any bruises starting to form, even as every movement seemed to make his body want to scream in protest.

The fog dissipated and he was back in Acre's port. He was still shaking like a leaf, but there was at least no more pain.

" _Desmond? Are you okay?_ "

"Just _dandy_ ," he bit back. But he was getting his heart rate under control, and he was breathing steadily. He completely ignored the crowds around him, just trying to focus on the fact that he _wasn't_ in pain, that he was _fine_ , that it was just his mind trying to fill in data or some other comic-book logic or something. Desmond reached up and buried his face into his hands, taking a damn minute to sort out the fact that he had been getting completely _thrashed_ just a second ago and was now pleasantly anonymous again.

"Assassin!" a voice called out from behind him.

"Fuck," was Desmond's reply as he felt, once again, searing pain along his back and he went pitching forward into the water below.

He was surrounded by fog and symbols for the briefest of moments before he was back on the dock again.

This time, at least, he was smart enough to clasp his hands.

"Did I mention how swimming might be nice?"

" _Shut_ up _, Mr. Miles_ ," Vidic growled.

Desmond silently climbed up the buildings on this lower stone dock and sat down, looking out at the docks and pulling out Acre's map to study.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "Going through guards equals Bad Idea." He used his time to just stare at the map and settle himself down after so much painful activity. He could _swear_ that there was the occasional phantom pain if he thought about it, but deliberate motion and stretches were all normal and pain-free.

"Can _we get going?_ " his warden grunted. " _Just retrigger the memory!_ "

Desmond scowled up to the sky. "In case you didn't notice, doc, that ancestor of mine _swam_ to the boat. And I _can't_ swim, apparently, so I need to figure out a different path. Unless you have one all cued up and ready for me?"

Vidic muttered impolite words in response.

Still, since he was basically calm and steady once more, he started to actually _study_ the map and the dock in front of him. He wanted to dawdle and waste Vidic's time to the extreme, but messing around with guards was clearly _not_ an option. Or at least not one he was going to entertain in any way shape or form.

So.

He couldn't get to the ship by the stone-wall-thing, so he needed a different path.

Staring at the map, Desmond started to notice something. "Hey, Lucy? For this construct, are the boats pretty much stationary?"

" _Yes, Desmond. Do you have a plan?_ "

"Maybe..." He looked down to the docks again and reached for the pouch that held the telescope and tried to pull it out.

"Try" being the operative word.

"Sonofa... Really? You let me use weapons, but not the actual _useful_ stuff?" Standing, Desmond carefully hopped from roof to roof, trying to see the actual wooden docks without having to drop down to were armed patrols were scouring the area in blank-faced circles.

Yup. Sure enough, the first wooden dock one could get to from the gate leading down from the city had four guards posted along it.

Clearly, Desmond wouldn't be going that way.

So he backtracked, continuing to play the clumsy free-runner for his watchers. The second wooden dock he came to was also guarded, this time by two Teutonic Knights.

Not that way either.

But the last dock, the one furthest north, was guard-free.

Perfect.

Desmond eased his way down and happily started walking down. He spied a drunk and, rather than walk around, he ignored him.

Of course, the drunk pushed him aside, and he tripped into the water.

Oh yes. He could definitely waste time this way.

Once Desmond was back on the docks, he clasped his hands and headed north, and proceeded down the unguarded dock once more. He gave a slightly wider berth of the drunk, but was still pushed over the peer, just like he wanted.

Four "tries" later and Desmond finally made it past the drunk and saw a patrol walking down the peer.

Crap. Desmond hadn't expected this, and in his surprise, he dropped his hands.

So, naturally, the guards spotted him, spitting out rude French.

Thus, also naturally, he was once again a human pin-cushion as a sword came down on him and he lost his balance over the edge and into the water.

And once again, Desmond was walking a familiar path up to the northern dock to walk by a drunk and, this time, stay off to the side with his hands clasped tight as the patrol went by.

He reached the end of the peer and made the very easy jump to the fishing boat floating there. Desmond waved his arms quickly, having expected the small boat to actually move with the water and the fact that it _didn't_ meant his arm-waving was throwing him off balance, but he remained standing at least.

" _Finally_ ," Vidic growled. " _Actual_ progress."

Right. Time to waste time again.

Desmond looked at the jump to the next boat, which was a larger gap than from the peer to the boat he was currently on. So, with a hidden grin, Desmond took the jump, let his foot slide off, and ended up in the water.

Reset once more, Desmond made his way down the peer. Again. Dodged the drunk. Again. And avoided the patrol. Again. The jump to the first boat was simple and he took a moment to once more gauge the gap to the next boat. Desmond ended up in the water. Again.

" _Stop fooling around!_ " Vidic yelled as Desmond once more emerged from the fog at the same place he always did.

"Hey," he called up to the sky, "I _told_ you I wasn't an assassin. I'm doing the best I can," _lie, lie, lie_ , "it's not _my_ fault that I can't swim here."

" _Just get moving!_ "

So Desmond did.

He had great fun constantly ending up in the water and passing through the foggy room of symbols and ending up back on the stone dock. Once he realized that there were poles sticking up out of the water for boats to moor at, he made the leaps from boat to boat look "easier" as each jump he made from pole to pole always seemed to miss, sending him back to the stone docks to start again.

Vidic eventually started getting nonsensical in his frustration.

"Oh come on, doc, you have to just laugh after a while," Desmond offered. "It _is_ kind of funny."

To this, Lucy, who had remained quiet, gave a small giggle.

"There, you see? Even Lucy can laugh once in a while, why can't you?"

" _Just. Get. Moving!_ "

"If you say so."

Desmond did have one issue, however, with all the resetting and going over the route again and again. That was the archers. Once he had been within sight of one and heard the familiar beep of being watched, he tried to clasp his hands, since that always worked on the streets. It ended up being useless however, since he couldn't pray and keep his balance. The end result had been a substantially _painful_ arrow through his shoulder that sent him careening into the water below.

This resulted in Desmond trying many different paths that avoided the archers, but after several arrows burying themselves in various parts of his body, Desmond couldn't stand it anymore. It just _hurt_ too much and he didn't want to think about any sort of science-y implications of what constant pain to his brain would do.

So, with great trepidation and hesitation, he had started to throw knives at the archers. Vidic had laughed, saying something about living up to his heritage, but Desmond kept picturing the targets he would throw at as a child. That those weren't living breathing people, but an image made by a construct to help build nostalgia for a damn machine.

An image that cried out in pain with every precise kill.

Something inside Desmond squirmed every time this happened, but he buried it deep down, unwilling to even acknowledge it. The sad fact of the matter was, given how many times he had to make his way along the lonely poles and boats of the harbor, he just got used to the sound and that discomforted him.

He also didn't care that it showed off that he _was_ skilled with throwing knives, but he couldn't take the time to show a learning curve without getting plugged with another arrow. So Desmond merely gritted his teeth and commented on aiming software, rather than acknowledging his own skill. He'd have to think about the implications of this later. Preferably after a meal and a nice hot shower. Maybe then when he actually felt a little clean.

After an unknown number of attempts to go across the harbor, Desmond finally made it to a tall pole that was standing tall and proud behind the back (aft?) of the boat, looking at the wood and trying to see where his handholds would be.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, mainly for Vidic. "Last jump, last jump. Should be easy. Lots of things to grab and a _long_ path to go through again if I miss..."

With a deep breath, Desmond jumped and happily dived in the water.

Reset. Again.

Desmond ignored Vidic's livid ravings as he went down the oh-so-familiar path he'd been taking for hours now.

And, just to be coy, he gave a frustrated growl as he missed the very first jump to the boat.

" _Desmond!_ " Lucy shouted, though there was laughter in her voice

"Sorry, sorry," he replied. "I got so used to this part I didn't concentrate."

" _Just get moving, Mr. Miles!_ "

It still took another nine "tries" to get to the ship again, and, admittedly, Desmond _was_ getting a little tired of stalling.

Hanging on the edge of a wooden, Desmond waited.

And waited.

... And _waited_.

Surely, he should be synching with Altair by now.

Cold realization started to settle onto Desmond. He was going to have to kill this Sibrand construct himself.

Oh _shit_.

Desmond frowned severely as thoughts started racing through his head. He'd already had to kill a guard once, on his first ride to Damascus, and it had felt _terrible_. This was a construct and he _knew_ he wasn't really doing anything, but that didn't change the _feel_ of it. Of feeling a sword or knife sink into another's flesh. This was why Desmond had left the assassins. He didn't want to kill. It was hypocrisy to claim peace even as you killed others. But having been through Altair's memories like this... He could see the reason why some of these people had to die. That didn't mean he believed in it.

He had left the Farm before he'd ever had to kill anyone and he'd made certain that, for all that he _did_ end up in fights, he didn't take another life.

With this cold realization was another realization.

If he was really going to escape Abstergo, run away, survive, he couldn't hold back.

Not only was he going to have to kill here, in this construct of his own mind, but also in reality.

... He wanted to throw up.

" _Fine_!" came the muffled voice of the helmeted Sibrand, _right above him_. "If none of you will lift your hand in defense of your master, I'll take care of this heathen _myself_!"

Looking up, Desmond watched Sibrand fire off an arrow right over him, then to port, then over him again.

Paranoid indeed if he was wasting arrows like that.

Slowly, Desmond eased himself up to peak between the rails and look around. This back part of the ship was empty, save Sibrand, who was walking down the steps towards the bow.

He couldn't quite hold back a grimace as he dropped back down again.

He waited, trying to think of some other way to synch with Altair. But without knowing what his ancestor's plan was other than Swim To Ship, he wasn't sure how, and experimenting with where might be interesting if it wasn't for the fact that Vidic clearly didn't like his dawdling. As it was, he had wasted as much time as he dared. Vidic was already making growls to just reset Desmond right on the damn ship and he didn't really want to deal with any specialties that Vidic might have in mind.

With a long and deep sigh, Desmond looked up as Sibrand repeated himself again.

Once the Templar's back was turned, he crept up over the railing and stepped as quietly as possible up to Sibrand's back. From there some sort of strange muscle memory took over as he grabbed Sibrand's faceplate and let the hidden blade go stra _ight through the ribs and to the lung_.

Altair's face was dripping, as were his robes, despite his best attempts to wring out the seawater one handed as he climbed up the rocks of the seawall. While the sound of water coming in with the tide would mask his approach, Altair did not wish to take chances. Not with a man as paranoid as Sibrand. The climb up the rocks had been arduous and slippery, but he'd managed to climb under the gangplank to the actual hull of the ship, and from there it had been simplicity to edge aft, where Sibrand was keeping watch out over the docks.

The sun was completely set, leaving only the darkening dusk and torches were already lit. The darkness was to his advantage as he ghosted across the deck and plunged his hidden blade into Sibrand's back.

"Please," Sibrand begged as Altair peeled off his helmet. "Don't do this..."

"You are afraid," he replied, stating the obvious, slightly surprised.

"Of _course_ I am afraid," the Teutonic coughed.

"But you'll be safe now. Held in the arms of your God."

Sibrand's cold face twisted. "Have my brothers taught you nothing? I know what waits for me. For all of us."

Altair frowned. "If not your God, then what?"

" _Nothing_. Nothing waits. And that is what I fear..."

Altair dipped his head. He'd seen men with no belief in any being, and they were always so scared. Altair himself did not know what awaited him in the afterlife, having been born both Muslim and Christian and yet practicing neither. Each religion held contradictory images of what whatever Almighty there was would do to him and his mixed heritage. But one thing Altair had faith in was himself and in his own merits.

This Sibrand was truly pitiful by comparison. He had faith in nothing.

"You don't believe," Altair said, stating the obvious again.

"How could I?" Sibrand coughed. "Given what I know... What I've seen... The treasure was the proof!"

Again with the treasure of Solomon's Temple. Altair truly did not understand what made a simple piece of silver so special.

"Proof of what?"

"That this life is _all_ we have."

"Linger a while longer then, and tell me of the part you were to play."

"A blockade by sea," Sibrand replied with a cough. "To keep the _fool_ kings and queens from sending reinforcements once we... once we..."

Sibrand's voice was getting quieter.

"Conquer the Holy Land?" Altair hazarded a guess.

"Freed it, you _fool_... From the tyranny of faith..."

"... _Freedom_?" Altair couldn't believe it. "You would work to overthrow cities," he gave Sibrand a shake in his anger, "control men's minds, murder _any_ who spoke against you!"

Sibrand gave a cold smile. "I followed my orders," he said quietly, "by believing in my cause... same as you..."

Altair bit back a growl at such madness and dipped his feather into Sibrand's blood. It was time to go.

"Assassin!"

Or fight, it seemed. Swimming would wash the blood from the feather, so Altair drew his sword. There were only two other guards on the ship and Altair easily slew them. A small patrol coming around the lighthouse however, were coming right at him.

So Altair jumped off the ship to a rowboat down below and began running from boat to pole to archery tower as he raced back to the docks. The patrol behind him were laden down with armor and any that tried to follow him soon ended up in the waters below, struggling to stay afloat with all their gear and chain mail.

Still, the alarm had been raised; he would need to be careful. As such, he stuck to the roofs once he was in Acre proper and out of the docks. Avoiding the archers was simply a matter of waiting for them to pass and using the occasional sky garden or even the edges of roofs to slip by.

It was well past the middle of the night, however, by the time he finally dropped back down into the Bureau. Omar was at the desk and he quickly disappeared to get Jabal.

"Altair," the old _rafiq_ greeted. "You've caused quite a stir."

"I've done as requested," he pulled out the bloodied feather. "Sibrand's life has ended."

"So it is! So it is," Jabal smiled for perhaps the first time since Altair had first come disgraced to this city. "You should ride for Masyaf and inform Al Mualim of your success. You will travel with Motaz, Stephen, and Brother Jacob. That way, I will know that they are safe."

"They have not left yet? And Jacob comes as well?"

Jabal nodded. "You've not even been here a week. Arranging for safe travel for Stephen has taken time given his illness and now this old priest of yours wishes to go as well so that he might learn. Or at least, get some time away."

Altair had not expected this. Still, it might be nice to have travel companions, though it would slow his journey.

"Yes," Altair agreed. Then he shrugged. "I should return and speak to the Master. Of this and... other things."

Jabal looked at him, concern in his eyes. "Is everything alright, my friend? You seem... distant."

Altair hesitated. His concerns had much to do with things that the _rafiq_ of each city did not seem privy to know. Discussing the detail would be difficult. "It's nothing, _rafiq_ ," he said politely. "Just a lot on my mind."

"Talk to me then, let me help."

And it was the first truly sincere offering of help Altair had had in a long, long time.

That felt... nice.

But he shook his head. "I need to make sense of this myself first." He bowed. "But thank you for the offer."

Jabal narrowed his eyes. "It is the men you kill, isn't it?"

Of course a _rafiq_ would be so shrewd.

"You feel... something for them."

"How?" Altair asked.

"Ahh, my friend," Jabal smiled an old, tired smile. "You are not meant to enjoy these grim tasks," he said quietly. "Regret, uncertainty, sympathy, this is to be expected."

Sibrand, like others Altair had slain, was convinced his brothers would bring peace to the land by freeing the people from the shackles of faith. This strange Brotherhood sought the same as the assassins. But their methods were too brutal and imprecise. He had to admit; he was torn. While Altair could appreciate their goals, he viewed with disfavor the way in which they sought to realize them. Still this situation raised questions. If they wanted the same thing, should they not be working together? Was what he was feeling normal? To question everything so closely? Altair did not think the depth of his questions marked his feelings as normal. But the fact that Jabal had seen it so readily implied he was not the first to question.

"I should not fear these feelings?"

Jabal shook his head. "You should embrace them. They are what keep you human."

Still Altair hesitated. "What if I'm wrong? What if these men aren't meant to die? What if they mean well? Misguided, perhaps, but pure in motive?" Because so many of the Templar dreams were exactly what the Order wanted. The methods, however... the methods...

Jabal leaned back, stroking his beard. "I am but a _rafiq_ , Altair, and such things are beyond me. Perhaps Al Mualim can help you to make sense of it."

But that was where a part of Altair still doubted. "Yes. Perhaps." Altair offered another bow. "Thank you, _rafiq_."

Jabal bowed as well. "It is my pleasure to have served with one as skilled as you. Now rest. You've a long journey tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands down the hardest assassination in the game. We cannot TELL you how many times it took us to leap through the docks in order to get to Sibrand. If you didn't have the camera at the EXACT right angle the jump would go to pot and poof, restart. It's somewhat cathartic to take the most frustrating assassination and turn it into a giant comedy with Desmond as he deliberately fails in order to stall. Desmond also performs his first assassination proper, something he will have to do more and more as the games progress - we're waiting for the time when he's doing his own kills in the real world. It's a step along the path for him.
> 
> We also get to see Altair recruit a convert: brother Jacob. His role in Sibrand's first cutscene makes the scenario so much more meaningful than the ramblings of a paranoid coward. It also shows how well Altair has learned the Creed: Nothing is true and everything is permitted. Similarly, we also see how he's grown when compared to "him," the bitterly sarcastic Motaz (and he at last gets a name!). He's just about self-actualized now, and one can imagine how this will affect things in Jerusalem. (knowing laughter)
> 
> Anyway, next chapter: Desmond stalls some more. And more. And more.


	21. Stalling a Juggernaut

** Desmond floundered, his hearing like cotton, his vision blurred and unfocused. He felt floaty and not quite in touch with reality, something akin to when he'd been reading a good book or just finished an immersive movie and he was still, in part, in that fantasy... **

"... not a lot of time, Vidic..."

"... understand... within the launch window..."

Dammit, he needed information to escape. Come on, _focus_.

"Wherever it's hidden... time to retrieve it...

"... working on it..."

"And when it's done?"

Desmond strained to see without being obvious, but he couldn't see who had that cruel voice.

Vidic was standing by his head, however, and glanced down at him, seeing he was awake and listening. Looking back at whoever the second speaker was, he said confidently, "He'll be taken care of."

 _Shit_ , that meant they were going to kill him soon. As he had progressed along that horizontal ladder of straightened DNA to that memory they wanted, he had almost forgotten what his fate was. Delay them, that was his focus, but this was a cold reminder on _why_ it was so important...

"I want that progress report by tomorrow morning."

Vidic turned, looking down to Desmond. "I've got some work I need to do," he said, sounding stressed, turning on his heel he stalked off, "so you've got the rest of the night to yourself."

There was a hissing slide of a door as the visor over Desmond finally slid back.

Desmond sat up quickly, looking around. Warren was still heading to the conference room, which meant that the door he had heard was whoever that other speaker was. Glancing around the room, he saw no one else and just shook his head.

Right. Escape was becoming more and more a priority.

... A desperate priority if he didn't keep a lid on his fear.

Vi _dick_ entered the conference room, the door closing behind him, as Desmond stretched. It wasn't full night like it had been the previous day, but instead dusk. So he'd been pulled from the Animus early.

But that made no sense. Especially that foggy feeling. Granted, there was always a little disorientation when he got out of the Animus, but not to that degree. The last time he was so off-kilter was when he'd first been plugged in and they had to manually pull him out.

Dinner was laid out again and Desmond took the chance to fill his growling stomach.

He turned to Lucy, who was working hard at her computer.

She was the technician who was in charge of that thing, she'd know.

"... I think there's something wrong with the Animus," he ventured.

"Nope! It's working fine," she replied in a false cheer. That wasn't like her. She sounded... stressed.

So, raising an eyebrow, Desmond said, "I'm pretty sure it just ejected-"

"I'm pretty sure you should shut up," Lucy said firmly.

Right. She'd pulled him out. She was trying to delay them as well. She'd been such a help, Desmond wasn't sure how he'd have stayed sane without her. But there was one outlying question she hadn't answered yet.

"You ready to finally tell me what's going on?" She had offered, after all. Not directly, but she had.

With a tired sigh, Lucy turned from her computer. "We have to _stop_ them, Desmond. When they access that last memory of yours... They're just getting _started_. They want to change everything: The way we live; the way we think; the way we _are_."

Desmond took a gulp of his water and took another bite of his sandwich. He reminded himself that the conspiracy theorists were _right_ and that huge corporations (read: Abstergo) really _were_ out to get you.

"You've gotten the lecture from Vidic," Lucy continued. "About what's wrong with the world? How we need order and discipline! So they're going to give it to us. Only we don't have a say in the matter."

He sat back, the enormity of it all pulling him down. " _How_?" What the hell sort of mind-control could they _do_ in order to do that?

"The Templar treasure," Lucy replied, her phone starting to ring. "They think it-" She lifted a finger and answered the cell.

" _Miss Stillman_?" Vidic's voice came over loud and impatient.

"I'm here," she replied politely.

" _I need you to upload Desmond's files to the database_."

"Got it."

Turning, she stepped up the dais to Vidic's throne of the lab.

Desmond waited.

She didn't continue.

Dammit, _answers_ , he needed _answers_ if he was going to hope to figure out enough in order to _escape_. Standing, he put down his sandwich and stalked up to where Lucy was logging into Vidic's laptop.

"Soooo, what?" he asked. "You're using me to find this Templar treasure? What do they call it? The... Piece of Eden?"

"Yes," Lucy replied.

"Well, it's looking like it's at Masyaf," he replied, butchering the pronunciation of the city Altair knew so well. He shrugged. "So I don't know why they're wasting all this time with me? Why don't they just send their people to pick it up?"

"They can't," Lucy said, stopping her typing and resting her arms on the edge of the glass desk. "It's not that simple. The artifact from Masyaf? They _had_ it."

Something deep in Desmond went cold.

Those Templar _bastards_ had invaded _Masyaf_? They would _pay_ for daring to defiling his home-

Desmond shook his head.

"It was destroyed in the accident," she continued.

"... Then what are they hoping from me..." Desmond shook his head again. _He_ wasn't the one saying anything it was Altair who said it all in the memories, and those weren't his. "For my ancestor to tell them?"

Lucy looked down. "They're hoping he'll show them where the other ones are."

...

 _What_?

 _Other_ Pieces of Eden?

What the _fuck_?

"You mean there's _more_ than one of these things?" Other pieces of silver that bore legends that were unbelievable? Just what the hell were these things?

"Oh, Desmond," Lucy sighed, shaking her head. "You have _no_ idea..."

Really? He never would have known...

Her phone rang again and she answered promptly.

" _Is there a_ problem _, Miss Stillman?_ "

"No, Warren," she replied hastily. "Everything's Denver on my end."

" _Then..._ where _are the files?_ "

Lucy hung up and looked to Desmond. "I've got to move these files before he gets suspicious."

Desmond took the hint and went back to his dinner, letting things turn around in his mind.

Multiple Pieces of Eden. He couldn't believe it. He _didn't_ believe it, to some degree. Yes, there were things called Pieces of Eden out there, he'd seen Al Mualim hold one. But as Altair had said, it was a piece of silver. Maybe aluminum or something, but it was just a metal ball. He really doubted that a sphere could somehow turn everyone across the world into brainwashed zombies. But he was beginning to wonder if he could _afford_ to look at this as magic mumbo-jumbo when it seemed everyone _else_ involved in this believed that it _could_. Hell, they were sticking him into what must be a multi-billion dollar machine just to find another one.

But if it could, why hadn't anyone done something similar over the years? History just didn't back up these outrageous claims.

Desmond drank some more of his water. He needed to escape. That _had_ to be his priority. They were getting closer to the memory every day, and even with all his dawdling and Lucy's attempt to slow them down, that didn't change the fact that progress was still being made. And once these Abstergo-Templar-bastards had no more use for him, he'd just be a body dumped somewhere to never be found. During his hacking late that evening, he'd have to work harder for some sort of access to the outside world. He had nothing in his cell. Even in the lab. His only hope could come from outside.

He grimaced. He'd left the Assassins and had many a good reason to, but it didn't look like he'd just be able to disappear again. Going solo would just get him killed and the Assassins, from what he remembered, would have more resources than he did himself.

It might mean meeting his family again.

He might be able to apologize. Make amends.

But that was getting ahead of himself. First he needed to crack the closed intranet to find some sort of outside line. A foreign email made it to Vidic; certainly Desmond could do something similar. Though his computer skills were rusty and these systems were _far_ more advanced than whatever hacking he did into municipalities and such.

With a sigh, Desmond finished the last of his pitiful meal and stretched. Lucy was still working on Vidic's computer, so he wandered over.

"What's that mean?" he asked. "That 'Everything's Denver'?"

Lucy gave a small smile. "It means everything's fine."

"Why Denver?"

"It's a reference to Denver International Airport," she explained patiently. "There's an underground facility there. It's where the accident happened."

Accident? What accident? But Lucy was glancing at cameras again, her sign that she wouldn't say more.

Desmond nodded, acknowledging the closed subject, questions still whirling in his head, and just started walking the perimeter of the lab, repeating the exercise he had tried previously before needing to stop. It was soothing and he let his mind go blank, knowing things would still be processing in the back of his head. Maybe he'd wake up and believe some of the unbelievable that was running around. Or get an idea on how to escape.

He kept making laps, checking his pulse every so often, and he noticed that Lucy would watch him with a faint smile.

As Desmond walked by, he offered one of his better smiles. "Wanna join me?" he asked.

Lucy let out a laugh and when he passed her again she shook his head, gesturing to her feet. "Heels aren't made for exercise," she replied. "Besides, I have a lot of work to do."

Desmond gave a shrug as he walked by again. "Your loss."

An hour later and Desmond was pleased with the rhythm he was maintaining and while not a true runner's high, he was feeling a little less stressed than he had been the past few days.

Lucy did join him, heels kicked off, for all of one lap before the freezing air pouring over the computers sent her running back to her heels to warm her toes.

His walking ended, however, when the door opened and revealed an armed guard. At first, Desmond ignored him and kept walking. But a polite cough from Lucy made him slow down.

"You need to sleep," Lucy said kindly. "You've had a long few days. Aren't you tired?" The guard gestured with his gun.

He wasn't tired, but Desmond could take a hint. "Fine, no problem," he replied and headed to his room. He finished cooling down, sat on the floor to stretch, then took a long, long shower and utilized facilities.

Running a hand through his drying hair, he put in the code to his locked door and went out into the lab.

It was late, the lights were once again dimmed for nighttime, and he made a beeline for Vidic's computer. The old bastard had been working on analyzing files and Lucy had spent a fair amount of time there as well. Hopefully there'd be something useful there.

Yet, two hours later, Desmond _still_ hadn't found any port accessing anything outside the intranet to something useful like the internet. In frustration, he started poking through emails, reading about a Flouride Enhancement Study that poisoned a town and Abstergo couldn't cover it up. Some girl named Jane Birkam wanted lunch with Vidic and Desmond hoped the old bastard messed it up. Alan Rikkin, a name Desmond had seen before on emails was apparently quite irritated with the "idiots in the pills division" and their fluoride disaster. There was something in that email as well about the 21st and launch of a satellite, filled with obviously sarcastic comments on how it would help the people.

Desmond started at that for a moment before his brain went straight to Piece of Eden and Mind Control.

It was a deadline. No wonder Lucy was so stressed and Vidic was so grouchy. They had only four months until Abstergo launched something designed to subjugate the masses.

A cold shiver ran right down his spine.

Desmond _had_ to let the Assassins know about this. They had resources; they could fight this! But he needed to get _out_ of here first!

He looked through the emails again and found another conversation between Vidic and Rikkin, this one about a secure terminal in the conference room.

Seriously? More secure than _these_ pieces of crap that didn't let him even open Solitaire?

But there was something about a security code...

Hope swelled in Desmond's chest. He was out of the seat quickly and across to the conference room, inputting numbers. Once inside, he barely glanced around before heading for the door on the opposite side, inputting the numbers again.

Nothing.

Desmond resisted the urge to swear, scream, pound his fists on the door, or anything else that might attract attention.

Useless. This was all so useless!

If he could get out, he could overpower a guard, use their keycards, _something_!

But instead, he was stuck.

Desmond was so frustrated, so angry, so... _helpless_ , he let out a deep sigh.

This had been enough for one day. He needed to go to bed.

* * *

_TIME is running out there's so little of it left but there's still so much to tell in the blood and the past and the people who are no longer still have so many secrets to share if only there was TIME to get it all down if only there was enough BLOOD to share it all with he who will make the difference but soon they will come for me and the patterns will be lost in the ABYSS of our MEMORIES_

* * *

  
Desmond slept fitfully at best, his fear over his imminent fate keeping him up. He had paced the corners of his room but to no avail, and at best he had maybe five broken hours of sleep. He still had the vague sensation of having dreamed, but he couldn't remember it. Sighing, he was in the shower when he heard the door to his cell slide open, and the voice of a certain smarmy god-complex freak. "Time's wasting, Mr. Miles."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Desmond replied, scrubbing his face with a towel as he finished cleaning up.

"We're nearly done, you know," Vidic said, proud.

"And then what?" Desmond couldn't help but ask. He was tired, tired of playing games.

"You'll see. Maybe they'll even let you watch when it begins. It's not as terrible as you think."

"Look, I know you're not going to let me leave," Desmond said, mentally making himself face facts and determined to squeeze the old prick for every last nugget of information he could. "So why not tell me what's going on? Humor me."

"I'm not an idiot, Mr. Miles," Vidic replied in smug tones. "I think you've already learned quite a bit."

Desmond stiffened, his mind jumping automatically to his night hacking - or not-hacking. He had never mentioned it before though... "I don't know what you're talking about," Desmond said wearily.

"Of course not," Vidic replied dismissively.

Right. New angle. "Alright let me ask you something else then."

"Yes?" Vicid prompted.

"Some of the stuff I'm seeing in the Animus, sometimes... it seems wrong. Untrue, like the history is off somehow. It doesn't-"

"It doesn't what, Mr. Miles?" Vidic answered, cutting him off. "Match up with what you read on an online encyclopedia? What your high school history teacher taught you?" The doctor paced slightly, waving an arm as he was prone to do in what Desmond now recognized as lecture-mode. "Let me ask you something: do these supposed 'experts' have access to secret knowledge, kept hidden from the rest of us?"

Desmond rubbed his forehead at being asked an idiot question, but his exhaustion didn't hamper his answer. "There are books letters, documents, all sorts of source material from back then." He looked to the old man. "Some of it seems to contradict what the Animus is showing me."

" _Anyone_ can write a book," Vidic scoffed. "And they can put whatever they want on its pages. Anything. Used to be we thought the world was flat."

"Some people still do," Desmond quipped, uncertain where this was leading.

"Yes, and they publish books about it. Or that the moon landing was a hoax. I believe there's also a book that claims the world was created in seven days! A best seller, too," he added.

Cold swept over Desmond again as he once more realized now _nuts_ these people were. Even atheists didn't diss the Bible like this, did they? How did that smarmy attitude that believed in people who came "Before" and a little ball of metal being used for mind control out of a sci-fi movie connect to a harmless book? How did asking about things that seemed inaccurate lead to an oblique reference to the Bible being full of bullshit? He was too tired for this...

"Where's this going, doc?" he asked, weary.

"The point, I suppose, is that you shouldn't trust everything you hear, everything you read." Vidic smirked again, saying, "What's that your ancestor said? 'Nothing is true'?"

And, almost without thinking, Desmond completed the phrase. " 'Everything is permitted.' "

"Yes, exactly. It's part of what makes the Animus so spectacular. There's no room for misinterpretation."

Desmond straightened. "There's _always_ room."

"Touche, Mr. Miles," Vidic said, clearly amused. "Now that I've answered your question, can we begin?"

And without another word the old fart swept into the lab, up the dais to the window overlooking the complex holding Desmond prisoner. Lucy was at the computer, her eyes flicking to him, worried, before absorbing herself in the work again. Another large breakfast lay before him, and Desmond knew the idea of lunch breaks were now a thing of the past. He ate slowly; he didn't have much appetite to begin with after all this, but he forced himself to eat as much as he could and as slowly as he could. His mind felt like jelly, he was _exhausted_ , and there were too many questions floating around in his head - worse, too many he couldn't answer, and he could almost feel the corner that he was being backed in to. What would he do when his back was against the wall? What _could_ he do?

Sighing, he finished what he could and lay on the cool curved table. As the visor slid over his field of view he tried to think about what he could do to stall, to forgo, the imminent future that lay before him.

* * *

"Come in my student. We have much to discuss."

Altair stepped up towards the Master's desk. The treasure from Solomon's Temple was out again, Al Mualim still studying it, it seemed. The older man turned from the window and faced Altair squarely. "We are close, Altair. Robert de Sable is now all that stands between us and victory. It is his mouth gives the orders, his hand pays the gold. With him dies the knowledge of the Templar treasure, and any threat it might pose."

Altair nodded, but his eyes flicked to the harmless silver. Could he ask? Should he ask? He opened his mouth. "I still don't understand how a simple bit of treasure could cause so much chaos."

"The Piece of Eden is temptation given form," Al Mualim said, his voice reverent as he gazed at the treasure. He turned back to his student. "Merely look at what it's done to Robert. Once he tasted of its power, the thing consumed him," he said, his hands making fists to annunciate his declaration. "He saw not a dangerous weapon to be destroyed, but a _tool_ ," and his voice changed, becoming reverent again, "one that would help him realize his life's ambition."

Life's ambition? Altair thought of what he had learned to this point, of what the other eight had done, the goals they had hinted at. "He dreamed of power then."

"Yes, I know," the master said, his tone odd. "He dreamed, and still dreams, like us, of peace."

... _What?_

"... But this is a man who sought to see the Holy Land consumed by war!" Altair protested, shocked.

"No, Altair," Al Mualim corrected, raising a hand to forestall further declamation. "How can you not see when _you're_ the one who opened _my_ eyes to this?"

The assassin shook his head, confused. "What do you mean?"

The teacher circled around the table slowly, getting closer to Altair. "What do he and his followers want?" he questioned. "A world in which all men are united. I do not despise his goal; I share it. But I take issue with the _means_. Peace is something to be learned, to be understood, to be embraced."

Altair frowned, something was off in his master's voice, and he could not place what it was. "He would force it," he said slowly, trying to follow the older man's logic.

"And rob us of our free will in the process," Al Mualim concluded, nodding.

The master assassin shook his head again, looking back at all the questions he had harbored about the Templar plans, the... sympathy he had felt for them. Applying such feelings to de Sable... It was so...

"Strange... to think of him in this way..."

Something softened, just slightly, in Al Mualim's half blind eyes. "Never harbor hate for your victims, Altair," he said in as gentle a voice as Altair had ever heard. "Such thoughts are poison, and will cloud your judgement."

So, then... If Robert's goal was the same as the assassin's, then perhaps...?

"Could he not be convinced, then?" Altair asked. "To end his mad quest?"

A small smile touched Al Mualim's almost white beard, and he shook his head slightly, sadly. "I spoke to him, in my way, through you. What was each killing if not a message? But he has chosen to ignore us."

Altair nodded. "Then there's only one thing left to do."

"Jerusalem is where you faced him first," the Master said, turning and going to his pigeon coup, pulling out a bird. "It's where you'll find him now." He released the bird and it flew out the window to inform Malik of his coming.

Al Mualim gestured to the table. "Let this final offering lend you strength."

It was his old master's sword, the hilt plated in gold, his gift from when he had first made master; its strength was unparalleled, hand crafted just for the precious few that had the title of master assassin. In addition were five more throwing knives, for a total of fifteen. Altair spent a meticulous amount of time going over his weapons, placing the extra knives on his shoulder, checking for nicks on his short sword, taking a practice swing of his master sword, going over every spring and facet of his hidden blade. His status was returned, he was as he once was; but at the same time he was not. He had grown, slowly, painfully, over the course of the last two seasons. He had learned, and with a deep breath he promised himself that the lessons would not go forgotten again.

"Go, Altair," Al Mualim said in serious, formal tones. A hand rose, gesturing him to leave. "It's time to finish this."

The master assassin nodded.

Outside, Altair paused, looking out over the training ring, Rauf and Farasat both putting the men through their paces. Walking down, Altair went to the edge of the ring, listening to the admonishment and encouragement both.

"Don't hold your weapons so carelessly, it must be an extension of yourself."

"Posture, posture! A man reads another through posture, do not strut around like you have something to prove."

"Don't leave yourself so open! Your enemy will use every opportunity to his advantage, give him none."

"No, no, now you've overplayed the part. You are not a slave but a poor merchant, do not hunch your shoulders and dart your eyes."

Almost as one, the two instructors saw Altair and said, "Show them how it's done!"

Taken aback, Altair froze, surprised they had singled him out. Others around him laughed.

The old pickpocket instructor spoke first, still laughing. "Master Rauf, you can have him first. Be certain to work him hard, so I can show these boys how to blend in when their bodies are on fire from bloodlust."

Rauf chuckled good-naturedly. "As you wish, Master Farasat." Drawing his own sword, he gestured Altair to enter the ring, and the master assassin followed. "You are fully armed, now," he said, glancing to the sword at Altair's hip, now matching Rauf's. "I'm glad. Let us see if your skills have not dulled after so long an interim of boredom." The sword master said nothing else as he launched into a real battle, shoving Altair back with his strike as none other than Templars could. Altair retaliated, and their bout lasted for some fifteen minutes, the two working each other over in an even match. There were several shouts and bets going on, many oh's and ah's as everyone watched the fight. The two did not let the ring limit them, and often others had to dart away as Rauf leapt over that limiting boundary to give himself room to counter Altair's strike, or Altair would dart around it like a building, using the time to switch to his short sword before skidding to a halt and deftly blocking another blow.

The fight ended in a draw, both of them panting and damp with sweat. That led quickly into Farasat walking up and trying to pick Altair's pocket, which the master assassin blocked by grabbing his old instructor's hand.

"Excellent," Farasat said, eyes flicking to his students. "How did you know?"

Altair took a breath, still trying to even it. "You pushed at my shoulder too much, I could tell it was deliberate."

The instructor nodded. "Excellent. Now that all here have seen your skill with a sword, show them your skill of invisibility. Walk as a scholar."

Nodding, Altair bent his head low and clasped his hands, taking a slow, strolling gate of a man in deep contemplation or prayer.

For the next two hours, Altair bounced back and forth between Rauf and Farasat, teaching defense breaks and counter strikes in addition to how to be invisible in a crowd regardless of how many weapons he bore upon him and how to sneak up behind someone alert to the thought of thieves. The novices and apprentices marveled at the master assassin's skills, and the journeymen gave grudging respect - even those that had spat at Altair even weeks earlier held their tongues; they saw something in him Altair, something he had never possessed before: inner peace. The man before them was a man of the Creed, a man who knew his beliefs and accepted those of others.

It was noon when Altair at last departed. The teaching had done him good, but he had a mission to do - the most important mission to date, and wanted to get started sooner or later.

Leaving the keep, Altair made his way down the path, giving proper berth to the _rafiq_ and _dai_ as they passed. None spat at his feet. The basket weaver Ghassan waved at him as he passed, Altair returning the favor.

"Eagle!" Ghassan's four year-old sister bolted up to him, trying to jump up and instead only wrapping her tiny body around his leg and the scabbard next to it.

"Be wary, child," Altair said, carefully detaching her. "You'll cut yourself if you run so carelessly at a man with a sword belt."

"Pick up!" she cried, giggling happily.

Sighing, Altair lifted the girl up deftly, raising her above his head and swinging her slightly back and forth as he walked back to the basket weaver. Ghassan was aghast. "How do you manage to sneak away _every time_ I turn my back," he demanded, shaking his finger. "Nuzhat, you go to our aunt _right now_ and stay with her! Or you'll never come with me to work again!"

The four year-old sniffed. "Mean," she muttered, before shouting. "Mean!" and running behind Altair's legs.

Ghassan sighed. "I'm sorry she is such a bother, Master Altair," he said. He tried to grab little Nuzhat, but the girl darted away and soon a girl and a grown man were running around the master assassin. He watched, amused, for several moments before his quick reflexes swept in and grabbed the girl, lifting her up and handing her to Ghassan in one smooth motion.

"No! Pick up!"

Altair shook his head. "Not when your brother is mad at you," he said softly. "Not when you've disobeyed him. Learn your lesson and mind your place when he takes you here. If not, you lose the privilege of coming - and of me lifting you."

Nuzhat's eyes were bright and watery, and she gave a monumental wail. "Mean!" she shouted, crying.

Altair froze, not expecting the girl's tears, but Ghassan took it all in stride. "Don't believe her," he said quickly, shifting her small weight. "She will cry as loud as she can to get what she wants, and stop in but a moment when her goal is achieved." A small fist landed in his jaw and the basket weaver growled. "She'll kick, too," he added in a flat voice. "You'd best get going. I'll not let this little bundle of trouble keep you."

"I understand. Safety and peace."

Altair continued to make his way down the mountain, nodding to some or talking briefly to others. It seemed everyone was stopping to pay their respects, and Altair had to wonder if he had such graces bestowed upon him the last time he was a master assassin. He could not recall it, but then, he was likely too absorbed in himself to notice. He vowed to himself that he would treasure these times. He had just passed under the stage when he heard,

"Altair, my friend, my brother! Off again on some other assignment?"

Zamil, now dressed in the mail and white smock of Masyaf guard, jogged up to him.

"Safety and peace, brother."

"Safety and peace, though it seems every time I see you you are off to do the Master's bidding again. He seems to rely on you heavily."

"I wouldn't know about that," the master assassin replied. That brought a small frown to his face; he honestly didn't know about Al Mualim's other machinations with the Order. Was he really relied on so heavily? Why were the others not tasked with assignments? For that matter, why was Farasat still in Masyaf? His skills would be better used in one of their cities, Acre or Tyre. Zamil was skilled, surely he should have gone to another city, and yet he was a guard now. Why? What other plans did the teacher have that Altair didn't know about?

"I was promoted," Zamil said, expansively, unaware of Altair's thoughts. "I'm now an assassin proper - very junior of course, compared to you, but I am most pleased. Aaqilah received her first shipment of spices; you should have seen the look on her face when I told her she would be the one doing the inventory. She was so happy to be doing the work I couldn't bring myself to tell her it was because I hated the job. And my daughter! She grows by the hour, and has become fascinated with my voice. Whenever I speak she turns her tiny little head right towards me and stares. Her eyes are like her mother, they pierce into everything."

"I'm glad that you are happy," Altair said.

"I've always been happy," Zamil said, "What I am now, however, is complete, and it makes a word like 'happy' inadequate to describe the sensation." He paused a moment, assessing the master assassin. "But you, it seems, you perhaps know a taste of it. I see peace in you, now. It seems to have settled with you well."

Altair smiled slightly, uncertain what to say.

"Come, you must speak with my wife. I still want you over for dinner, and Master Farasat, too; I've not seen him for weeks and we now live in the same town again! My duties are all consuming, I'd no idea how much work being a guard was, my feet hurt worse than when I traveled hither and yon. The Master makes such odd requests and I'm off to gather herbs and plants or take names of people in the trades and other things. I haven't even started patrols yet!"

Altair held up a hand. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm off to Jerusalem for my next assignment, and I'd rather not linger."

Zamil paused, clearly thinking about Malik and his attitude towards Altair, and he put a supportive grip on the master assassin's arm. "I hope that others find peace with you, too," he said warmly.

"... Thank you. Safety and peace, Zamil."

"Upon you as well, Altair."

His friend departed and Altair once more made his way down the mountain, finally entering the gate square. Under the shade of the massive tree of the square, sitting by the well, were Stephen and Jacob.

"Ah, Master Altair!"

Sighing at another delay, but unable to be truly irritated, the master assassin made his way to the shade.

"So, then, you two are truly not brothers?" Jacob was asking, his aged face so wide in marvel and surprise that he looked almost young.

"We are all brothers," Altair answered, "But Stephen and I share no blood."

"But I don't understand, how is it that you can say that when you have such obvious Christian members such as young Stephen here and some of the others I've seen. You even have those yellow miscreants from Khwarezm."

Stephen answered first. "We are brothers because we are all the same: we are men. Color and race and creed do not change that. It is the tolerance and our acceptance of our differences that make us brothers. All the rhetoric about one people being better than another is nothing but philosophical arrogance, the desperate needs of those who wish to feel special, not understanding that all are special, so that none are special."

"Now you've lost me again," Jacob said, his eyes bright and his mind working to understand.

"Everyone is special in some way," Altair answered. "Some talents are noticed, others lauded, and some envied, but everyone has some talent that makes them special, even something as seemingly mundane as perfect recall." Altair flicked an eye to the errant apprentice. "It is because we all have some skill that the belief that one is better than the other is meaningless. If one sets out to assert that he is above another, then he must somehow prove that he is more special than any other person on this earth, but because we are all special, it cannot be done, and by that logic no one is special."

"Such a conundrum," Jacob said, rubbing at his white beard. "Two diametrically opposed philosophies, and yet your circle of thought..."

"Nothing is true," Altair said, "Everything is permitted."

"Is is through such reason that we here in Masyaf learn how to accept one another, and through that acceptance we learn peace."

"So fascinating. And yet the Lord willingly turned his other cheek, offering it to be struck. Tell me, how does forgiveness of sins fit into all of this?"

Altair held in a sigh. He could be at this for hours and he really needed to go. Stephen seemed to sense this and held up a hand to Jacob. "A moment, brother," he said, getting on his feet. "Master," he addressed Altair, "I wanted you to know that I am doing better, and that Master Farasat will be taking me under his wing. Once I am better at being invisible, I hope to go back to the field and better learn what skills I have."

Altair nodded and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You'll do well under him, he is an excellent teacher."

"Thank you, Master. I'll not keep you further."

Nodding, the master assassin left the two to their philosophical debate and finally made it to the gates of Ma _syaf come on man I gotta desynch or they'll skip me right to Jerusalem!_

* * *

Desmond stumbled mid-step as he finally made it to the black stallion. Yes!

_"Damn it! This didn't happen the other day; what's going on?"_

Desmond offered a trite response: "No idea, doc," before taking the black stallion at the stables and riding off into the kingdom.

As he trotted down the valley he tried to weigh his options. What more could he do to stall? He had climbed every viewpoint Lucy could find in the kingdom, he'd collected flags in Masyaf and in Acre, would there be more in Jerusalem? And was there anything else he could add to the list? The doc wasn't stupid, he could only use the excuse of "increasing his synch ratio" so long before the actual deadline loomed over any priority on synchronization, and Desmond had proven that he could synch with Altair with far fewer bars.

Rubbing his forehead, the white loading fog engulfed him for a moment before the construct could load the kingdom proper, the mishmash of valleys and mountain trails that the Animus cobbled together. No sooner had he left the tiny stretch of valley controlled by the assassins that a patrol of Saracen guards spotted Desmond and made him right away.

"There he is!"

"I'll get you!"

"You cannot run forever!"

"What the hell?" Desmond shouted as he dug his heels in the horse, suddenly taking off down a trail in the exact opposite direction that he wanted to go and struggling to hold on to the reins and steer the animal. "Lucy, what's going on?" he demanded. "They never made me this quickly before!"

So of course instead of the hot blond the smarmy Vi _dick_ answered. _"Why,"_ he said, his smile obvious in his voice, _"Your ancestor's mentor said that they were looking for men in white hoods, didn't they? Isn't it more realistic, then, to program the guards to spot you on sight?"_

"God-complex son of a bitch!" Desmond shouted as four guards lined up in front of his horse, swords out, and swung at his horse's legs. The massive animal pitched forward, Desmond with it, and he was certain that he would have broken several bones if it hadn't been for the construct. As it was, he lay on the ground for several minutes before one of the guards ran up and prepared to deliver a fatal blow. Desmond rolled away, though barely, and managed to push himself up to his feet and run.

Legs pumping, arms swinging, Desmond plowed through the dirt road, glancing only once back over his shoulder to see that he was faster than the Saracens. Smirking, he looked around, remembering how Altair often lost his pursuers. He could hear beeping in his ears, a sign that the guards didn't have line-of-sight of him, and he all but jumped into a cart of hay sitting very randomly in on the path, taking a deep breath and waiting. The beeping in his ears slowed down, eventually disappearing, but Desmond didn't dare poke his head out.

"Is there any reason why carts of hay are randomly sitting out in the middle of nowhere?" he asked.

 _"I wasn't aware that logic played much of a role in the world of your ancestors,"_ Vidic said in his smug voice.

Bastard.

And why wasn't Lucy answering his questions? Was she that focused on the computer? But then, they were all under stress because of the deadline of the satellite launch. Even she couldn't help him all the time; and he couldn't even ask regardless, because he didn't want to draw attention to her. Sighing, he finally took a breath and pulled himself out of the haystack. There were no guards in sight, and his horse was nowhere to be seen.

Right.

And so, not wanting to go on another merry chase, Desmond clasped his hands together and lowered his head and hunched his shoulders as Altair had done over and over, looking like a contemplative scholar, and started to shuffle down the road.

He was still spotted some three more times - damn archery towers - and he got more than slightly turned around as he tried to make his way vaguely south. It was another inadvertent way to delay, and because of that Desmond couldn't _quite_ protest at the huge bother it all was, but he couldn't hold in the sigh of relief when the white loading room finally surrounded him as Jerusalem began loading in the construct.

Except it wasn't Jerusalem.

It was Damascus.

There were a long string of curses after that.

Back out into the Kingdom he once more began the arduous task of shuffling his way south. Again.

He kept coming across horses, usually by another random cart of hay - no doubt a less than subtle hint from Vidic to hurry the hell up, but Desmond decidedly ignored the hint and kept walking, very slowly, down the trails and roads. He didn't know how long it took before he finally managed to load Jerusalem, but when it did he finally let his shoulders drop and once more sighed in relief.

Desmond passed through the city gates with the scholars Altair had used on his painful first trip to the city. They should have been the merchant's sons, but Desmond held his tongue on that score, while he didn't mind upsetting Vi _dick_ , it would ultimately do little good and he wasn't sure if the grizzly old fart even knew the distinction. He looked to the left and saw the grateful scholar's house; to his right was St. Ann's church were Altair had killed one of the town criers. He then looked up to the sky, aware the people were watching and that he should at least pretend that he was going to the city Bureau to trigger a memory.

Sighing, he began walking down the main street, looking for the turnoff to the open-air cotton market. The midday sun was still at its hottest position, but if Desmond concentrated he could still feel the cool metal of the table, and he used that to mentally trick himself that it wasn't that hot. Because he was so focused on that he almost missed it, the odd greenish flag tucked away by a carpet merchant. He blinked, looking at it, before reaching out and pick _ing it up. Not every run we do will be of Masyaf flags, as can be expected given we are not there. These are the flags you will be looking for. I know how many I've placed but you don't; see how many you can find in the Muslim Quarter before sundown."_

"Lucy," he said, refusing to acknowledge Vidic, "There's more flags here. I'm gonna see how many I can find, see if it affects my synch bar." Then, as a concession to the old fart, he added in bitter tones, "If nothing changes, let me know and I'll drop it." He had no intention of dropping it, but he had to play the part of the diligent prisoner.

_"Okay."_

Good, she could answer.

He wandered all through the Muslim Quarter first. Altair had spent almost all of his teen years here, he knew the city quite well, and bits and pieces of it triggered in Desmond, as well as the major locations that he had seen when watching his ancestor's memories. He recognized the barbican where Talal had tricked Altair into coming; he recognized the _souk_ , the marketplace where the sons all worked, the church where Altair had eavesdropped, and others. Most of the flags were on roofs, so he didn't have to worry about bumping into people - or more specifically, patrols - and most of the archers he could generally avoid. He wandered into the poorer Jewish Quarter after that, running across roofs of synagogues and mosques and churches alike. His skills were poor; of course, he fell more than once for show, and quite a few purely by accident, but that only helped him stall more.

Done, or at least after finding all he could, he looked up to the sky. "Well?"

 _"One more bar,"_ Lucy replied. _"The last seven flags don't seem to have affected your synchronization much."_

_"So get going, Mr. Miles."_

Sighing, Desmond made his way back to the Bureau, it's tiny bronze-or-brass dome incomparable to the massive golden Dome of the Rock in the Temple Mount. Desmond paused, realizing he had never known the name of the giant landmark until now. He looked at it, reaching up and out over the rest of the city, and remembered that there was a mosque to the south of it. How did he know that? He didn't know a lick about Jerusalem other than its location on a map and all those old fables Christians always assumed everyone knew. He wondered what it looked like today, in the present. Was that massive gold dome still there? Desmond turned, looking out over the clay houses and up the circular guard tower. Was the guard tower still there?

...Would he ever get out of this? Out of here?

_"We're waiting, Mr. Miles."_

Desmond sighed and jum _ped down into the courtyard._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep trying Desmond, you'll figure something out eventually! Or not...
> 
> There's really not much to say about this chapter, it's just a stepping stone. With Robert de Sable looming around the corner the next few chapters will be interesting, as you can imagine. We hope to have a few surprise turns here and there, so keep reading!
> 
> Next chapter: The famous Church of the Holy Sepulcher, David's Citadel, Templars galore, and oh yeah. Malik. :D


	22. Awed Eyes

No one was in the courtyard to greet Altair. He hadn't expected anyone so late at night. He had pushed his horse hard, and even with taking mountain trails exclusively it was difficult to work his way around the armies north of the city. Al Mualim had been right in his prediction, both armies were massing around Arsuf, and the master assassin hoped that battle could be held off even a little bit longer - at least until de Sable was dead. Preferably not at all, but Altair doubted such a fervent wish would come to fruition.

Inside, Malik was at the counter, reading a letter by lamplight. Had he been waiting for Altair's arrival?

Apparently so, for he looked up at the master assassin and said, "Safety and peace, Altair."

"Upon you as well, brother," Altair responded. Even now, he hoped for resolution between him and Malik, but he schooled himself against the thought. The damage had been done, and he would have to live with it for the rest of his life.

"... Seems fate has a funny way with things," the _rafiq_ said, holding up the letter. His tone was soft with the late night, his face ripe with irony and sadness, missing the usual anger. He was thinking of his brother, the same way Altair was.

_"Fortune favors your blade."_

Altair closed his eyes to the memory, instead looking at Al Mualim's letter.

"So it's true, then. Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem."

"I've seen the Knights myself," Malik nodded, tired, weary.

The master assassin didn't want to see that on his friend, and he found himself straightening, offering words. "Only misfortune follows that man. If he's here it's because he intends ill. I won't give him the chance to act."

Malik looked up, a frown quickly pressing in his features. "Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, brother," he scolded, leaning on his one arm on the counter. "We both know," he looked away, suddenly pained, "... no good can come of it."

Did he think...?

Altair shook his head, leaning forward himself, and quick to speak.

"I have not forgotten; you have nothing to fear. I do not seek revenge but knowledge."

If anything, the frown pressed even deeper into Malik's facial hair. His eyes narrowed as he gauged the man before him. "Truly you are not the man I once knew," he said slowly. Cautiously.

Altair straightened again, his hands hanging limply at his sides. He paced slightly, trying to find the words. "My work has taught me many things," he tried to explain. "Revealed secrets to me. But there are still pieces to this puzzle I do not possess."

"... What do you mean?" There it was again, that cautiously neutral tone.

Altair rubbed his forehead. Al Mualim had not told even _Malik_ of the links de Sable had forged across the Holy Land? What was he _thinking_? Malik, of all people, deserved to know. For Kadar's sake. Exhausted from the long ride, Altair struggled with himself over telling what was once his best friend about the conspiracy, the Master's oblique wishes be damned.

"All the men I've laid to rest have worked together, united by this man. Robert has designs upon the land, this much I know for certain. But how and why, when and where, these things remain out of reach."

Malik blinked. "Talal, Majd Addin... Crusaders and Saracens... working together?"

Altair shook his head. "They are none of these things, but something else: Templars."

Malik's frown reappeared. "The Templars are part of the Crusader army," he pointed out.

"Or so they would like King Richard to believe," Altair countered, remembering William. "No, their only allegiance is to Robert de Sable and some mad idea that they will stop the war."

The stillness of the night settled over the two, Malik's narrow gaze assessing Altair. Finally,

"You spin a strange tale."

"You have _no idea,_ Malik," Altair said, his voice startlingly loud. He started pacing again, words falling out of his mouth. "De Sable seeks to build an army, controlled by plants and opiates; he sought control of the cities to so that the citizenry would provide the soldiers; he would burn all books and level a blockade against the Crusaders to prevent their intrusion as he overtook the land." The _rafiq_ was staring at Altair in open disbelief, now, his eyes wide at the master assassin's outburst. Why did Al Mualim keep this from others? What point did it serve?

Exhaustion swept over him again. He rubbed his forehead, his face, his jaw, before taking a deep breathe. "I seek to learn more with de Sable and the Templars here, but tell me where they've been seen, I should be after him before he slips away."

A lengthy pause followed before Malik, too, rubbed his face in exhaustion and looked to the map of the city on the counter. "Three places I can say for certain: west of here near both a guard tower and a hospital, and to the southwest, near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The Templars seem to be keeping to the Christian and Armenian Quarters."

"I understand. I will begin at dawn." Altair turned, going back to the closed in courtyard, and carefully laid himself out for a few hours rest. Malik watched for some time before he, too, went to his quarters.

Just before dawn Altair stretched and filled his water-skin, nibbling on some of his trail mix. Adjusting the throwing knives as his shoulder and tightening one of his shoulder straps, he moved to climb out of the Bureau.

"Altair."

Pausing, the master assassin looked down to find Malik under the lattice, looking up at him. "... See what you can learn, I will do the same."

"I'll be quick as I can." He turned and darted off, not hearing Malik's cautiously neutral reply.

"... Stay safe, my friend."

He knew both the guard tower and the hospital that Malik had spoken of, and so he took his time wandering the northern parts of the Christian Quarter. True to Malik's words, he saw Templar white several times, their white smocks and red crosses stark against the more earthy colors of the citizenry.

Everyone looked left and right, tense, nervous at the presence of soldiers. Many huddled in whispered corners, concealed in courtyards, wondering what _Crusaders_ were doing here. Where was Salah ad-Din, no word of defeat in battle had reached anyone, nor word of victory for King Richard, so why were Templars here? Several theories ran wild: they were an advance force to break morale, they were scouts determining who they would plunder and rape as they entered the city, they were negotiators for a resolution to the war, they were an olive branch to offer peace, etc. The positive thoughts startled Altair, after living in the city for so long he knew how the people had been relieved with Salah ad-Din's rein, the sultan had been rational enough to allow Christians their pilgrimages to the city - unlike others.

Rumor had it they were mostly camped at David's Citadel, by one of the city's many cemeteries. Some thieves noted the Templars were finely dressed, and that several held expensive gifts. For whom?

Men in white were watched, the Templar colors pervasive enough that even Saracens with no affiliations that happened to wear white were noted, scholar or otherwise. The master assassin looked at his own clothes and hunched forward further, determined to be invisible.

Altair kept his head down, listening to the whispers, trying to learn why the Crusaders were here. Their presence had been mostly inconspicuous when they sought the Apple of Discord in Solomon's Temple; none had known they were there. Altair frowned at the thought, for if no one knew, then how had the Master learned of it? Now the Templars were obvious, walking the streets as if they belonged there, and the master assassin could not figure out why.

Coming across one Templar, Altair decided to follow him, and see where the soldier was going. It was fortune that took him to the hospital Malik had mentioned, and Altair walked around the building, climbing a ladder of a building pressed against the northern city wall and gauging the distance before taking a leap, crossing the gap and landing in a tight roll onto the hospital's roof. An archer spied his landing, and the master assassin felled him quickly with a throwing knife.

The inner courtyard of the hospital was filled with degenerates, moaning and babbling and bumping into each other. Altair climbed down to a lower overhang, he had no desire to walk amongst the madmen unless he absolutely had do, and so he worked his way around until he saw the Templar, coming out of the building with a city guardsman - one of Majd Addin's guards he surmised by the more expensive armor. The two were talking.

"Take the map I've given you," the Templar was saying in accented Arabic. Altair recognized the voice, but couldn't place it. "And see that the guards are placed accordingly. We'll be safe enough during the procession. It's the burial that worries me. It is easy for our enemies to hide amongst the crowd."

Burial? The Templars were here for a funeral then; a strange reason to arrive in such numbers.

"If you're so concerned, why not post your own men? Search the site yourselves," the city guard suggested.

"Our own presence here has caused enough chaos," the Templar said, sighing. "I can only imagine how the people would react to seeing Crusader soldiers marching across their holy ground." Altair frowned, the Crusader sounded... sincere.

"Then perhaps you should not attend at all."

The Templar stood to his full height, leaning in to the guard's personal space. "He was our friend and brother! And we will honor as him as he passes from this world. You insult me by suggesting otherwise."

Altair pulled back, the heated and slightly arrogant tones placing his voice. This was the disguised Templar in Damascus, the one who threatened a merchant and quoted the Quoran to one of Abu'l Nuquod's personal guards. Now he was in Jerusalem in his proper colors, mourning the loss of a friend and brother? Who had died?

"I'll post the men," the city guard conceded. "I don't want trouble either."

"Then stop trying to _make_ it and do as you've been asked!" the Templar hissed, and Altair watched as the soldier stalked back into the hospital, leaving the city guard alone with the document. The choice was obvious to Altair, he wanted to do absolutely nothing to alert the Templars to his presence, and so he carefully climbed down into he hospital courtyard, well behind the guard and slowly angled his way to the man. It would be easiest if he could pick the man's pocket before he exited to the tense and nervous city streets, where eyes filled with fear often saw more than an assassin would want.

Two degenerates tripped over each other, right in front of Altair, but he hopped over the live bodies and closed the distance, picking the guard's pocket before backing off to a corner. He waited until the guard was out in the streets before climbing back to the roof, leaping to the buildings up against the city wall and traversing them to find a sky garden to hide temporarily.

The map showed David's Citadel and its outlying streets and structures. The graveyard at the base, the only place allowed public entry, had two gates by Altair's memory that the map confirmed, and several marks indicating guard placement. The number of guards was large - even compared to the ridiculous levels of patrol from Sibrand and his paranoia. Archers lined the roofs, he would have to either take them out or take extreme care in not being seen by them as he assassinated de Sable. Difficult, but not impossible, Altair would have to plan accordingly, assuming this was not another trap like with Talal.

The master assassin still didn't know who had died. He had been away from Jerusalem long enough - and his recent visits had been short enough - that he was uncertain whom the prominent Christian figures were that lived here. He had thought there were few powerful Christians left after Salah ad-Din had taken over four years ago, but he could not be certain. He would ask Malik, he would likely know.

His stomach growled, however, stopping Altair from heading back to the Bureau. With all his riding quickly from city to city, he had not taken time to truly eat well outside of whatever trail mix he always kept on his person or the meals Masyaf provided to any assassin in its walls.

And, since this was Jerusalem, Altair knew all the best places for a good, yet cheap, meal. He made his way south and somewhat west, to a small restaurant with seating in the shade of the hot midday. It was small fare, but it was the first proper meal he'd had since he left Masyaf.

It was while he ate his meal, keeping scrolls and maps spread across the table like a scholar in study, that Altair noticed something odd.

People were looking at him. Pointing. Whispering.

... This was unheard of. In all his apprenticeship in Jerusalem and all his previous assignments here, he had _never_ stood out like this. It was disconcerting. It made an itch up and down his spine that required him to _leave_ and become invisible once more. But he ignored the instinct and kept up his scholar façade. If guards or Templars starting to increase in number, he would leave, but to run now would only draw even _more_ attention he didn't wish.

Altair continued to sit patiently with his meal in the shade, eyeing the observers, who never stayed long. His patience was rewarded when one young man attempted to be discrete in stepping forward. He was anything but; yet Altair had a trained eye and could see the approach before it even began.

The young man sat down at Altair's table and he looked up. "You've shaven since last I saw you," he commented, greeting the scholar's eldest son.

"I thought it was you," he replied with a wide smile. "My father continues to laud your good work."

"I have done nothing others should be proud of."

The young man smiled softly before calling over for his own order. "Have you not noticed?"

"I notice many things," Altair said. "Of what do you speak?"

"Why, the eyes which follow you! It's how I found you."

Altair's gaze narrowed as his frown deepened.

"Ah, so you _have_ , noticed," the son laughed as his order came. "Father said you would be to humble, but I think you are more... unaccustomed."

"To what?" Altair demanded. "What have I done to make the citizenry notice my every move?"

The son sipped from his wooden cup and shook his head with a chuckle. "You chased Talal through the streets and a _souk_ and then the slaver disappeared and no one went missing again. Majd Addin held this Holy City in fear and terror and yet the white hooded man who chased Talal appeared like a miracle from the crowds and felled him before all to see."

Altair dipped his head and scowled horrendously. He may have been invisible during his investigations, but now the public nature of each of his targets was proving a hindrance. Majd Addin, there was no avoiding, but Talal would not have been so visible if he hadn't been so careless. It was going to cost him now. The archers would be difficult to hide from, but he would _have_ to stick to the roofs. It would be the only way to ensure anonymity. That would make his work so much harder...

The son sat back with his meal, laughing. "Perhaps Father was right and you are too humble."

Altair looked away. "I don't seek these men for recognition from the public. Indeed, visibility is a great hindrance in my work."

"No doubt," the son was still chuckling. "I'd say you have nothing to fear, but I don't know you or your methods enough to really say so."

Taking the last chicken leg, Altair finished it off before whipping his hands and rolling up his cover as a scholar. "I must be on my way."

"No doubt," the son replied. "Be safe, my friend. And be sure to visit my father at some point. He'd love to talk to you."

"I make no guarantees."

"Of course not."

Altair left coins on the table, enough for both their meals, and swiftly went to the back alleys were eyes _still_ followed him and found a ladder. Once on the roofs he stayed low, keeping a sharp eye out for archers. Any he spied he kept a wide berth of, since an archer's duty was to keep an eye on the streets below.

As he worked further south, Altair heard another herald that wasn't speaking of cursing the Crusaders down in the square in front of the Church of Holy Sepulcher.

"People of Jerusalem, we stand upon a threshold!" the crier shouted. "To cross it is to usher in an age of peace between all men. Embrace these Christian soldiers as you would a brother. Welcome them with open arms! In this way we might forgive the sins of the past and bring about a better tomorrow!"

It seemed that de Sable wanted the people to ignore his coming into the city. Such propaganda would likely spread enough confusion, especially for those sick of the war and who wanted it to end, that the people wouldn't revolt against such a heavy presence in the city.

"For too long we have drawn lines across the land. Spilled the blood of those we once called friends. We have _all_ suffered because of this. But now... now we are offered a chance at redemption! A chance to begin anew! Let us make peace with the Crusaders. Let us live as one."

Altair sat back from the edge of the roof. The speeches, though he knew their purpose was trickery, still rang far too close to the goals of the Assassins. Peace, an end to a war that made the people suffer. Altair could not help but wonder what de Sable's true motives were. He backtracked and found a ladder. Then, despite his unease of knowing that the city watched him, he eased into the crowd listening to the herald.

"We must be strong! We must be brave! And we must find the courage to face those we once called our enemies and now instead, call them _friends_! The Crusaders come to Jerusalem, bringing with them an opportunity to end the fighting... to stop the war... That we may stand as one, we must not turn them away."

All around him, people whispered back and forth, questioning if the Templars were here truly as an overture of peace or as an advance force to take the city. There were comments on how people continued to flee Jerusalem; comparisons to how the Templars at least stuck to the Christian and Armenian Quarters; words of gifts that none had yet seen. Muslims who lived in the Christian district gave stories of no hostility, but suspicion while Christians who lived in the Muslim or Jewish Quarters questioned whether the Templars were wise to come marching into the city, overtures of peace or not.

People questioned and debated, uncertain what any of this meant.

The afternoon continued to pass as Altair kept his ears open and his shoulders hunched. He maintained a limp and spoke with a heavy country accent, anything to keep what anonymity he had. He asked for clarifying questions, trying to see how a "city scholar" would interpret it compared to his country learning.

As the dinner hour started to approach, the herald, his voice starting to crack from a long day of shouts and calls, finally stepped down. The crowd started to disperse, and Altair silently shadowed the town crier, keeping the limp as they walked into the shadows of the Church. The crowds were still thick but Altair was patient. He followed the man into the church and down the steps that Crusaders of previous wars had cut that lead down to the cistern they had dug, yet claimed that Saint Helena had found the True Cross where Jesus was crucified. The Sepulcher itself was still half in ruins from previous disasters, and Salah ad-Din was too busy fighting off the Crusaders to spend money on repairs, and that didn't even get into Salah ad-Din being a devout Muslim and, while generous as a Muslim was supposed to be, Altair doubted that even the chivalrous sultan would spend money on a church he didn't believe in.

Once down in the cistern, the crowds were finally gone, as the cistern was not at a time of worship.

Altair did not believe in religions. But he did understand the respect many people had for sites of Holy Legend. He would rather not spill blood here, but it was no longer his choice.

The chapel for Saint Helena was only a few decades old and it glowed quietly in the chandelier and oil lamps hung from chains near the arched ceiling. The herald kneeled and Altair stepped into the light.

"You speak of peace, but your words are hollow," he said softly. The echoes of the chapel made his voice bounce and engulf the herald.

"No!" the man hissed back. "I speak the truth. Why would you say otherwise?"

"You're a _Templar_." That was reason enough. After all the Templars he'd killed, he knew that they would use lies as readily as a sword to get what they wanted.

"So I am." The man smiled with pride.

"Then you are also a liar and a fraud!" Altair replied confidently. "Just like your master Robert de Sable. Where is he? What does he intend?"

Because that was the one thing his investigations never revealed. Connections were seen, but the ultimate goal was not.

"It's _peace_ he seeks, I swear it," the herald replied heatedly. "And the proof is in his actions. A Christian at a Muslim's funeral. We want an end to all of this!"

 _Peace_. Altair doubted this was truly the ultimate goal. A bid to gain power was far more likely. But puzzling was what Muslim had died that de Sable would visit. Malik would have mentioned any prominent Muslims who had died that day and the funeral would likely be by nightfall, as per custom of the funeral being as close to the actual death as possible after cleansing.

But those thoughts would get nowhere without further information. "Peace?" Altair said incredulously. "Only because it serves your needs."

"It is a noble thing we want," the herald scoffed. "The land united beneath our banner!"

"United by _force_. You'd enslave us all."

"It _is_ for the best."

Altair frowned. No denials. Robert de Sable _did_ seek to enslave the Holy Land. But for his own power? A likely reason but something about that didn't feel right.

" _No_ ," Altair said softly. "It's not. And so long as my brother's and I breathe you will not succeed."

"And you, _assassin_ , will _fail_."

Altair struck the man in his temple, then kicked his head once he was down to ensure the crier was unconscious. Thankfully there was no blood, so Altair lifted the man, pulling an arm over his shoulder and heading to the stairs leading back up into the Church proper.

"Is there a physician?" he called out as he dragged the limp herald out to the common area of the church. "This man has collapsed! Is there a physician anywhere?"

Priests and monks came forward, helping Altair carry the herald out of the Church and down the street towards a physician. In all the commotion, it was simplicity itself to stab his hidden blade into the man's side unnoticed and then slip away to a ladder and then to the roofline.

The sun was sinking further and further to the west, most of the city in the shade, save for the golden glow of the Dome of the Rock as Altair started to head east back to the Bureau. He still needed to talk to Malik about what Muslim would have died that would have Robert attending the funeral. It would have to be fast and Altair could only hope Malik already knew where the funeral would be held. A Muslim was buried within hours, or as quickly as possible, and Altair would have to hurry to get to whatever graveyard in this city of graveyards the funeral would be at.

He paused on a roofline, however, when he saw a white _tagelmust_ below. A journeyman was walking between shadows down below, looking around cautiously. Altair let out a pigeon's whistle, one familiar to any who had trained under Baasir.

The journeyman below gave the barest of nods and made his way up to the roofs.

"Safety and peace, master," the journeyman greeted with a familiar voice. "Ah! Master Altair! It is you!"

"Halim," Altair nodded as they sat in the shadow of a sky garden.

The boy seemed to brighten, his eyes smiling brightly. "Have you seen all the vile Templars in town? I have been ordered to kill as many as I can before burial of your latest victim, Majd Addin."

"Majd Addin?" Altair replied, a brow up. "It has been several weeks since I killed him. Surely he has been buried by now."

Halim nodded. "As per custom, he was buried within a day of your swift and magnificent work. However, the Templars in town are holding a memorial for him in some Christian ceremony."

Altair sat back, settling this new information with what he had already learned. "Do you know when the memorial will be?"

"Of course, master. But for now, the _rafiq_ has given me a mission. I am to kill some of these cursed Templars and thin their ranks. I am sure if it were your mission, it would be done in no time. I have learned much while looking for those Templars. I will share valuable information with you and say..."

Altair held up his hand. "I may now be a master assassin again," he said quietly. "But I wish to avoid old patterns. Make me earn the information as if I were still demoted."

"But-"

"Now how many Templars have you killed thus far?"

Halim squirmed. "None, master. I was given this mission not four hours ago, and while I have seen and observed much, the Templars are too armed and too wary for me to get close enough." The journeyman's head lowered. "And I fear that I am no match for them in a fight."

This was likely true, Altair mused. Halim was still young and had not finished growing. As such, he was tall and gangly, awkward in shape. While useful for remaining unobtrusive and for appearing harmless, it did provide challenges when facing bigger opponents. Particularly since armored Templars always seemed much bigger than the average man.

"Well then," Altair said. "It is time you learned more about _silent_ kills."

Halim nodded enthusiastically. "Indeed! The _rafiq_ had said that it would be my greatest advantage, but I am unsure how to utilize it in this situation."

"Surely Malik has explained how to do a silent kill. Demonstrated and trained you in this skill?"

Halim nodded again as they went down a ladder to the streets once more. Altair was pleased to note that eyes did not follow him, likely because he was not solitary.

"Yes, the _rafiq_ has been most rigorous," the young journeyman replied. "Once I made journeyman he has been having me work on nothing but silent kills. While you were handling your previous target, I was one of the ones who took down the archers, the _rafiq_ guiding my every move." Enthusiasm and admiration started to gush. "I watched you take down all those guards! A magnificent display of such skills! Truly, you are unparalleled!"

Altair grimaced at all the praise.

"We are on the street, Halim," he said somewhat harshly. "Code your words so that none may know what we are truly speaking of."

"Of course, Master."

They walked the streets, Altair pulling out a map and pretending to quiz a new student of his on where they were and what they were doing. At certain points he would pause them to look up to the sky as Altair talked of stars and their positions and how one could start to see them above the golden Dome as twilight grew nearer.

At last they spied a Templar, white smock, red helmet and hand on his sword as he walked among the people. The citizens would alternate between staring at this invader and avoiding him entirely.

"We approach without looking at him," Altair whispered, both of them leaning over a map. "We are oblivious to our surroundings. We are where we are supposed to be and we are doing nothing wrong."

Halim nodded, asking questions in a louder tone about where they were, playing the part of a lost and learning apprentice.

The Templar had stopped at a shop and was just walking away when he ran into Altair and Halim.

Altair had to admit, with help for the set up; the kill itself went flawlessly, showing Halim had potential. Both offered apologies to the staggering Templar and went on their way. They were halfway down the street when there was a _thud_ behind them of the Templar hitting the ground.

The next two kills went similarly, with Altair doing less and less of the acting and letting Halim start to take the lead.

For the fourth kill, Altair stepped back entirely, sitting on a bench and striking up conversation with a Jew beside him easily, keeping an eye on Halim. The journeyman was still stiff in his approach, glancing back at Altair, but the kill went smoothly, the Templar never knowing what had happened.

"Your tutelage is such a blessing," Halim said as they walked side by side in search for another Templar. "I would never have managed this and so swiftly were it not for your brilliant guidance."

"You would have done just as well, if not better, under _Malik's_ guidance. He was always better at being subtle than I."

But Halim kept heaping on praise.

Once they spotted the last Templar, Altair nodded to Halim and then disappeared up a ladder, hiding his presence. For this, Halim would have to think he was truly alone.

The journeyman did glance around, freezing when he realized his prized mentor wasn't there.

Altair watched from above. Either Halim could do this on his own or he couldn't. He could not hold the journeyman's hand through every mission.

Still, he kept a knife in hand.

Just in case.

Halim was even stiffer this time, but he did not glance around again. He approached steadily, nose in the scrolls Altair had loaned him, looking deep in thought, even though his spine was far too rigid. It took some tracking to find the opportunity, but the Templar made it easy when he turned abruptly, right into Halim, sending scrolls everywhere.

The Templar stood extremely still as Halim babbled apologies while gathering up his scrolls. He gave a hurried apology, and even from up here, Altair could hear Halim's fearful voice of "Sorry!" "I'll be on my way, sir, I apologize!" as the journeyman acted like he was rushing on his way. A touch overdone, but acceptable given the climate in Jerusalem at the moment. Altair gave another pigeon call and Halim quickly found a dark, almost black, alley to ascend to the roofs.

"Passable," Altair replied. "You are too stiff, and tend towards dramatic, but it will do, with time and practice."

Halim smiled like he was the very sun. "I know now why I joined our clan. Just to be in your presence is a gift from above."

Altair had had enough of such lavish praise. "Do not look to me as an example," he growled. "I am a master assassin, yes, and as such I am a teacher. But the people you must look to are of an even higher rank than me. You should be seeking _Malik_ with questions or for advice. You must seek other _rafiq_ or _dai_. They are promoted for a _reason_. Such exaltation of one person when there are _many_ more deserving is a detriment that will narrow your focus and blind you to new ideas and methods."

Halim blinked, clearly not having expected such reproach.

"But..."

"No."

The journeyman said nothing, dropping his head. All was still for several minutes before Halim straightened. He was back to being a professional. "The memorial will be the day after tomorrow. This is what I've learned about Robert's men: They are well prepared for battle. To fight them all at once would be unwise. Better to let them chase you for a while before striking back. But it is disrespectful for me to tell a master how he should behave in combat. Forgive me, Master."

Altair scowled, but said nothing more on the subject.

"Come. Let's return to the Bureau."

* * *

The following morning, Altair was woken by Malik.

"Malik? What is wrong?" Altair asked, sitting up from the cushions on the courtyard swiftly. The _rafiq_ 's face was lined and twisted. He lacked his black robe and the sleeve hung empty, tucked into the waistband to avoid being a nuisance.

"I sent Ghunayn out two days ago," Malik replied. "He has not reported back."

Altair's face twisted as Malik's did. Ghunayn was a solid upper-ranked journeyman. He had a friendly nature, though not as exuberant as Zamil, and was a notorious gossip among Jerusalem's assassins. He had a habit of reporting in with some of the craziest rumors and information, but he had good instincts. His investigations led to solid leads, despite their more... exocentric nature.

And now he was missing.

"I know his likely hiding spots," Altair replied, getting up and checking his weapons.

"Get him back here as soon as possible," Malik replied, his face black. "I will _not_ lose anyone under my command again."

" _An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade_."

Altair understood the sentiment completely. He was running across rooftops before the sun had even risen, ducking from archers and using the predawn shadows to his advantage.

Ghunayn had several places he would hide if things got too difficult for him, much like the safe houses that Jabal's men had in Acre after things went horrible during the siege. Altair went through the spots in the Muslim Quarter first, checking the public courtyards and fountains, particularly the palm trees that Ghunayn was fond of standing by.

When he turned up nothing he headed south to the Jewish Quarter, looking closely around the synagogues where Ghunayn liked to eavesdrop and appear for friendly debate with the rabbi. From there he turned west and started searching the Armenian Quarter. These had only the safest of areas for Ghunayn, ones he used only when he was getting desperate.

The courtyards here were getting to be a dead end. Altair was heading north to the Christian Quarter when he stopped near the Jaffa Gate, looking down to a well in a small shaded courtyard.

Altair dropped down with a solid _thud_ , rolling with the momentum of it, and standing before the startled Ghunayn.

The journeyman blinked. "Altair, my savior! You must help me!" he hissed, leaning forward and pulling Altair further into the noontime shadows of the trees with a definitive limp. "I was shadowing my prey, a pair of Templars, when they saw me. I took flight."

"Could you not get word to Malik?" Altair questioned as Ghunayn eased himself down into a corner of the courtyard behind a bush.

His fellow assassin shrugged with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Although I evaded them, I twisted my ankle. Pathetic, I know. _Please_ , don't tell Malik!" Ghunayn looked up with an embarrassed smile. "He doesn't tolerate failure very well. At least Baasir doted on us. Malik just gets as grumpy as a plucked chicken if we aren't at our best."

" _I will_ not _lose anyone under my command again._ "

No, Malik was likely a very demanding _rafiq_. And with good reason.

Ghunayn gave another quiet chuckle. "Despite my pathetic performance, I _did_ overhear them say they were leaving town. Find them and kill them! Then I will reward you."

Altair nodded. "But first, let us tend to your ankle."

Altair ripped part of Ghunayn's robe off to wrap the foot and the journeyman handed over his pack to elevate it. As Altair worked on the ankle, Ghunayn showed his eye for detail as he described the pair of Templars he had been after.

With a nod, Altair took to the streets once more. Since it was noon, Altair having spent the whole morning looking for the wayward journeyman, the streets were once more packed and Altair was feeling eyes on him once again. It could not be avoided. Templars leaving with the description of an assassin would equal Ghunayn's death and, like Malik, Altair did not want to lose another Brother of the Order.

The first Templar he saw was on the street leading the square in front of the Jaffa gate. While unnerving that so many were still watching him, Altair ignored it, reaching for that corner of his mind and thinking of an eagle's sight, so that he could see all around him. If the eyes that followed him were a problem, he'd deal with it then, but for now, he had a brother to save.

Unlike the bumping-into method that he had shown Halim the previous day, Altair instead merely passed to the side, his arms brushing the Templar's and his hidden blade finding that spot between the ribs with ease.

He was around the corner and walking down another street before the Templar even fell.

The second took almost an hour to find. And this Templar was going to be tricky. No doubt by now the five Templars Halim had killed the previous day had been discovered, and this particular Templar he was shadowing was clearly starting to show concern. He had a travel pack with him and was constantly stopping to look around or change direction. He stuck to large crowds, making approach difficult.

But Altair was a master assassin.

He was several feet away in the crowd, hands clasped in prayer and contemplation, when a degenerate grumbled something incomprehensible and pushed Altair right into the Templar, the momentum driving his hidden blade deep into the man's heart. Once he had flowed away with the crowds, he quickly ascended to the roofs and headed back to Ghunayn.

"I am forever grateful! Malik would never have forgiven me," he said when Altair dropped in. "Here is what I know about the burial of Majd: Reaching Robert might prove difficult given the number of guards around. You should befriend some scholars to approach him. That shouldn't be a problem for someone of your skill."

Altair looked at him. "That's it? Befriend scholars?"

Ghunayn laughed. "Of course not! Here, I've been mapping out Templar stations at David's Citadel."

Altair didn't even glance at it as he put it in his pack. "Now let's get you get to Malik. I'm sure he'll have much to say."

Ghunayn groaned. "Have you heard what he's been doing around here? I don't know if Baasir would laugh or cry at Malik's teaching approaches..."

From there, Ghunayn started talking, in code while traveling the streets, of what Malik had been doing as _rafiq_ and gossiping about all the bumps and obstacles he'd had to overcome since arriving in the Holy City. Altair had to admit, Ghunayn always had an entertaining way to tell stories and as he listened, he could never quite hold back a chuckle or snort. Particularly for the stories of Malik's first weeks at the Bureau and his sharp-tongue putting people in their places.

"So many thought that _you_ would take over for Baasir that we were a little disappointed to get this grumpy, quick-tongued, pessimist."

Altair scoffed. "I doubt I could ever make for a good _rafiq_ ," he replied. "And putting me in Baasir's place when I was responsible for his death would have been foolishness."

"Oh, of course we all see it now," Ghunayn agreed. "Malik is just as good as Baasir was, but training him to be a good _rafiq_ was very difficult. Particularly since your legend always seemed to make him stricter than usual. You should have _seen_ how many times Halim has been required to clean every single blade at the Bureau, including any for a Brother that arrives while he's working."

Altair bit back a chuckle. Given Halim's profound admiration he had no doubt Malik often took him to task for choosing such a bad example.

"He demands nothing but the best from all of us, and those who can't meet his exceedingly high criteria, he starts pushing," Ghunayn continued. "Of course that's difficult with only one arm, so he barrages you with such sharp words you do it just to get him to shut up. Then you realize he'd been right the whole time and that you never had a chance of winning."

To this, Altair did laugh, because that was just like Malik.

When they finally got to the Bureau, Altair refused to climb to the roof, since Ghunayn's foot had swollen considerably after the long walk from the Jaffa Gate, despite both their efforts to keep weight off the injured limb. Instead, they went through an adjoining building, nodding to the owner of the shop, and went to the back where stacks and stacks of maps were kept. Along the back wall with a precise knock, they were allowed in to the Bureau proper.

Malik frowned horrendously as Altair helped the journeyman in.

"My apologies, _rafiq_ ," Ghunayn said with proper respect. "It seems I need to learn how to run again."

With narrowed eyes, Malik growled, "I think my new course might be just what you need."

Ghunayn groaned. "That beast? You designed that for only our most advanced runners and climbers!"

"Then it's just what you'll be needing once you've healed," Malik replied with a wide smile. "To ensure you don't trip over your own feet again."

The journeyman chuckled. "I lose again."

Malik's face dropped into seriousness once more. "Were you compromised?"

"He was," Altair replied. "The two Templars he was after saw him and are now dead."

Malik ignored Altair in favor of glaring down at the injured journeyman. "You are going to have to be confined to the Bureau," he stated. "If you are compromised, by all rights, I should send you back to Masyaf. But with Templars still crawling all over the city, it would be best for you to remain hidden. We can send you for reassignment after Robert de Sable is dead."

Ghunayn looked down. "You are too generous, _rafiq_. You place yourself and the Bureau at risk if any see me coming and going from here."

"None will see you for you're not _moving_ ," Malik clarified. "Until you are healed or until de Sable is dead, you are not leaving this building. Whichever comes last."

Ghunayn sighed. Then grinned. "I'm sure I'll hear some of the best gossip here! So tell me, Malik, have you finally found where young Saadah hid your precious quill? I can't wait to see what punishment you bestow on him!"

Altair frowned, turning to Malik. "That golden eagle tail feather? The one Kadar gave you when you reached assassin?"

Malik scowled further.

Altair matched the scowl, turning to Ghunayn. "Where is Saadah now?"

"It is not your problem, Altair," Malik growled. "I will handle the affairs in my own Bureau."

"Saadah knows to show respect to a _rafiq_. This is unacceptable."

"And you, novice, have a mission to do. A quill is unimportant in the scheme of things."

"That was a gift to you from _Kadar_ ," Altair growled back. "It _is_ important. Assassins should not pull such childish pranks, particularly on one who has well and truly earned and _deserves_ their respect."

Malik stared at Altair, face slackening briefly before returning to a scowl.

Ghunayn interrupted the staring contest. "Ooooh! This speaks of history! Please! Do tell!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Malik just keeps seeing good things in Altair. He'll say something eventually.
> 
> A fun little fact that we learned when writing this fic was the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Ultimately, the reason Jerusalem was the focus of so many Crusades was because of that Church. This is where Jesus Christ was supposedly crucified and buried. The building itself was originally destroyed, and a lot of Crusaders rebuilt it whenever they dropped by to take over Jerusalem and possession of the site. In more recent history, several major religions lay some kind of toe hold on that building and it makes for even minor changes to turn into fistfights. There is a document out there that, to make everybody happy, says the Church won't change forever. That means that nowadays the Church is literally crumbling on itself but no restoration or reconstruction can happen because nobody can agree on how to do it. Sigh. In light of and respect to all the importance on that building, it made sense to take the interrogation investigation that happens in its plaza and move it inside to one of its holy chambers (seriously. Look at the pictures of this place. It's incredible!). We also made the interrogation bloodless - well, at least until they left the sacred ground.
> 
> We also get to see Halim again. A couple of people mentioned that he seems like Kadar. Admittedly, since Kadar has maybe two minutes of screen time we're not sure how that can be, but we do sort of imagine that Halim and Kadar were agemates and possibly even best friends. Altair wouldn't know this because he's in and out of Jerusalem so much that he wouldn't make the connection, so it never comes out in the fic, but meh. There you go.
> 
> Also, note that people know what Altair looks like. That's important. (knowing grin)
> 
> Next chapter: Death of a Templar (sort of...?), and the beginning of the end.


	23. Death of a Templar I

Later that evening, after Ghunayn had been properly tended to and packed away in a back room to avoid poking around for more gossip, Altair and Malik sat by the chessboard of the Bureau. The other assassins had gone home and to bed, leaving Altair to finally give his report.

Malik sat back. "You've the scent of success about you, Brother."

Altair nodded. "I've learned much about our enemy." He started to lay out his maps and information.

"Share your knowledge then." Malik gave a wry grin. "Let us see what can be done with it."

That sounded like a challenge, something like back from when they were kids. Altair ducked his head and avoided it. "Robert and his men walk the city. They've come to pay their respects to Majd Addin. They'll attend his funeral tomorrow."

"Funeral?"

Altair shrugged. "More of a memorial, though the Christians intend a procession like a funeral. Either way, I will attend as well."

"What is this that the Templars would attend his 'funeral'?" Malik asked, an eyebrow raised.

Altair could see his mind working much as his own had been since putting the pieces together when he started his redemption. "I've yet to divine their true intentions," he admitted, "though I'll have a confession in time. The citizens themselves are divided. Many call for their lives. Still others insist that they are here to _parley_. To make peace."

"Peace?" Malik said incredulously, a brow still up.

Altair shook his head, rubbing a temple. "I told you. The others I've slain have said as much to me."

"That would make them our allies," Malik countered. "And yet we kill them."

"Make no mistake," he replied, "we are nothing like these men. Though their goal sounds noble, the means by which they'd achieve it are not. At least," Altair hesitated. "That's what Al Mualim told me."

Malik leaned his face onto his one hand, looking straight to Altair in the candlelight. "You hesitate. Why?"

Altair frowned. "Al Mualim has not shared the information I have learned with any of the _rafiq_ from what I can tell. Yet I believe that at the least, you and the other _rafiq_ I have been visiting should know of the deep tides we are swimming. All my kills are connected and their purpose remains a mystery. Something feels off about it and the wisdom of a _rafiq_ or _dai_ should be used to help ascertain the true nature of this plot. Yet Al Mualim sends no word other than my arrival and target." Altair looked down. "Even now, I feel that the Master is holding things back from me. I had thought I had proven that I had changed, but I don't know what more I can do."

They sat in silence for some time. Malik changed the topic, "So what is your plan?"

"I'll attend the funeral and confront Robert." Maybe _then_ he could have some proper answers.

"The sooner the better," Malik agreed. "I want him out of my city."

They started looking over the maps of David's Citadel.

The following morning, Altair lay awake, despite his attempts at rest after submitting all his reports and planning just hours ago. The funeral would not be until later, but Altair wanted to get an early start. This target... This kill... Robert de Sable... Altair held much hope for it. There were still many unanswered questions and a confession would hopefully clear them all.

The stars were just starting to fade in the approaching sun as Altair finally got up and prepared, going over every inch of his blades and ensuring that everything was sharp and ready. Robert, even with all of Altair's stealth, would not be one to go down easily. He felt he would need all his weapons ready for such a crafty and elusive target.

He was adjusting his harness when Malik came out to the courtyard, leaning against the doorway.

"Fortune favor your blade, Brother."

" _Fortune favors your blade._ "

Kadar...

Altair turned. This would be his last attempt. "Malik. Before I go there is something I should say."

The _dai_ raised an eyebrow. "Be out with it."

"I've been a fool."

The corners of Malik's mouth twitched, but his eyes remained somber. "Normally I'd make no argument, but what is this? What are you talking about?"

Of course Malik would drag it out of him. But then, he deserved no less.

"All this time," Altair started, "I never told you I was sorry," he said quietly. He shook his head. "Too damn proud." Altair continued to look Malik in the eyes. "You lost your arm because of me. Lost Kadar. You have every right to be angry with me."

Malik looked away for a brief moment. "I do not accept your apology."

Hurt blossomed in his chest, and Altair looked down, his head bowed. "I understand."

"No. You don't."

Altair looked to the _dai_ again.

"I do not accept your apology," Malik continued, "because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon's Temple. And so _you_ have nothing to apologize for."

"Malik..."

"Perhaps," the _dai_ said, looking to the wavering candle on the Bureau's desk, "if I had not been so envious of you I... would not have been so careless myself. I am just as much to blame."

Altair disagreed. Strongly. "Don't say such things."

"We are one," Malik turned back to Altair, standing straight again. "As we share the glories of our victories, so, too, should we share the pain of our defeat. In this way, we grow closer. We grow _stronger_. We become a Brotherhood."

Altair dipped his head in respect. "Thank you, Brother."

"May fortune favor your blade."

_"Fortune favors your blade."_

Perhaps they were both blessing him. Altair dipped his head even lower, his humility and respect obvious. Then he left.

Once on the roof of the Bureau, Altair cupped his ears and listened. Faintly, he could hear the sound of a Gregorian chant. That meant the Christians had left St. Ann's Church and were making their way to David's Citadel and its graveyard. It would take the entire morning to wind its way through the streets, and Altair had a lot of work to do.

Sticking to the roofs, the master assassin worked his way west and then south, wary of archers but surprised to find very few. His journey was virtually unmolested, and it was a very fast hour before he started approaching the citadel. It was there he quickly learned where all the archers had disappeared to, every building of two rows of houses were filled with them, pacing about and vigilant. Altair quickly pulled out the maps he had received of guard positions for the funeral and found them accurate. Hiding behind a roof access, he peeked around its corner and assessed his options.

The archers further away from the citadel bothered him little; they had no line of sight to the graveyard and would be of no consequence in the assault. What he did not know was how much the archers in front, the ones closer, could see. Maps could not help in that regard, and he had simply had no time to scout. His latest kills seemed to always be against time, and he frowned at the inconvenience of it.

Spying a small tower on the row of buildings in front of him, Altair stalked towards it carefully. There was a guard there; the archer already had an arrow knocked to the bow, pacing about. Altair threw a knife, and the man went down with a grunt that even he could barely hear. Altair leapt to the roof and dragged the body into a shadow before climbing the viewpoint. He had a perfect view of the graveyard and the citadel, and he quickly pulled out his telescope to better assess what to expect. Some people were already there, waiting for the procession. A group of scholars were there, a place for Altair to be invisible. More importantly, however, there was a small building complex between the two gates with no archer manning it, and it blocked the view of the graveyard from several of the archers that Altair was concerned about. He turned and looked more directly south, to the archers that worried him. They all had their bows knocked; they were expecting trouble - to be expected with a Christian ceremony over a Muslim. The guards that were further south had an unblocked view of the south side of the graveyard, but Altair pulled out his map and, with some quick math in his head, realized they were at a bad angle for much of it. That would be to his advantage. Nodding, he turned his attention to the gates. Four guards at one, two at the other, as his map had attested. His white hood would make them nervous, could he get around...?

Altair blinked, pulling away from his small telescope and cupping his ears again. The procession was almost here? Already? He glanced at the sun and saw how high it was. Cursing to himself, he looked down. There was a haystack below him, but the distance was too great and the cart too small - he would break bones if he tried to jump. Sighing, he climbed back down as quickly as he could and found a ladder to take him to the street.

He lost sound of the procession once he was at street level, there were too many people talking and selling and moving. Altair merged with a line of women carrying jars of precious water and soon departed to a crowd of thugs, picking one's pocket for the knife he had used earlier and then detaching again to lean against a wall where he could see the gate but the guards could not see him.

And he waited.

He looked up to the citadel, knowing the Templars were there; de Sable was there. Would he at last learn what the madman wanted? Conquering the cities, creating an army of it denizens, that harmless piece of silver, how did it all lead to peace? He looked forward to the confession, the anticipation filling his body with tension. But, even as he visualized his next kill, he eyed the Saracen banner; ludicrously large and fawning out in front of the citadel like an awning. What would Salah ad-Din think of his subordinates for what they had done?

For that matter, what would Richard?

It was almost exactly midday when the procession filled the streets, Altair merging with the crowd seamlessly and passing unnoticed by the guards. The crowd gathered at the south end of the graveyard, a sheik holding prayer. Altair kept his head down, mimicking the scholars and others surrounding him, but his eyes never left the three men in white.

Two Templars, the other _de Sable_ , the man who had done so much damage to Altair, to Malik, to the Order, to the _Holy Land_. Bloodlust filled Altair's mouth and he worked his jaw to contain it. He recognized the heavy grey cape, and his mind's eye filled with the Roman architecture of Solomon's Temple, of the struggle and the collapsed wall, and the _sounds of Kadar dying_. The hidden blade extended, and for a brief moment he wrapped his fist around the blade, pressing the flat of it against his missing finger, drawing strength and more importantly calm from it. The white smock had dirtied since last he saw him, likely from the ride south with the army, perhaps in a skirmish here and there. He was a fool to only bring a pair of Templars with him; the man would rue the day he set foot in the Holy Land.

With a deep breath, Altair retracted the blade and focused on his role as one in prayer.

The two Templars flanked de Sable, just to the side of a sheik holding the service. They were trying too hard, it seemed, as they even had a Muslim hold the Christian service. A city guard blocked the door to the citadel, and another stood off to a corner, silent support to Robert's plan. That made five men to fight, including de Sable, and three of them nobles trained to fight since birth. In such a crowd innocent people would be hurt, Altair decided to wait until the end of the service, when they were already turning to leave so that they might already have a head start on the running. That would be for the best.

Robert stood at his full height, helmet hiding his face from the crowds, but Altair could see his eyes sweeping the masses.

The assassin lowered his eyes, focusing on being invisible.

"Amen," the crowd said as one, the silent prayer complete.

The sheik began to speak. His words were slow, almost wooden, as if he wasn't sure what to say at a Christian memorial. He kept his words generic.

"We gather here to mourn the loss of our beloved Majd Addin. Taken too soon from this world, I know you feel sorrow and pain at his passing." De Sable's eyes roved over the crowd again, subtle but persistent. He was the grandmaster of the Templar Order, he was good, and Altair kept his head down in the crowd, surrounded by scholars and invisible to all. "But you should not. For just as we are all brought forth from the womb, so too must we all one day pass from this world. It is only natural, like the rising and the setting of the sun.

"Take this moment to reflect on his life and give thanks for all the good he did. Know that one day we will stand with him again in Paradise."

Robert kept eyeing the crowd in the following silence. He knew the assassin was here, was waiting for his strike, and Altair was more than happy to let the man sweat. He wondered how he would act with his death. Would he be afraid like Sibrand? Or welcoming like Jubair and Talal? Confused, perhaps, like William or Tamir? No, he would likely be none of those. It didn't matter how he would face death, the point was that he would die, and that was all Altair needed.

Slowly, de Sable's eyes turned to Altair's direction. For a split second he thought their eyes had met, but he ducked his head down and dared not confirm. His body filled with energy, cursing that he was so intent on Robert's death he had forgotten his role as a mourning scholar. He redoubled his efforts, determined not to fail in this mission.

At last, _at last_ , he would have answers.

"Amen."

Robert walked slowly up to the sheik turning his back to the crowd slightly. The sheik leaned in, listening, before he began speaking again.

"As you know, this man was murdered," he said, and Altair watched as de Sable pointed to the city guard in front of the citadel door and then gesture to the two men who had flanked him. "We have tried to track his killer." The city guard stepped away and opened the door to David's Citadel, two more Templars filing out and the four spread out on either side of the sheik.

Dread began to fill Altair.

"But it has proved difficult. These creatures cling to the shadows, and run from any who would face them fairly. But not today! For it seems one stands among us."

Altair froze.

"He mocks us with his presence, and must be made to pay!"

And the sheik pointed directly at the assassin. The entire crowd turned, dozens, perhaps a hundred eyes immediately on him. Exposed, exposed! He had been exposed!

"Seize him!" the sheik cried. "Bring him forward, that God's justice might be done!"

_Holy shit I'm fucking scre_ wed Altair saw two arrows fly by him as he spun around the screaming crowd, the people falling over each other to run away. Altair shoved them aside, trying to help them out of the way even as he simultaneously drew his short sword and dodged the high-pitched twang of arrows. His free hand went to one of his belt knives and he searched for the archers, but that had to be quickly dropped as well as the knife as one of the Templars advanced on him. The long sword had a better reach than his, and Altair was quickly on the defensive, deflecting strikes as a city guard tried to take advantage even as a third - Altair did not see whom it was, circle around him from behind.

He deflected a strike from the Templar and ducked under the city guard's strike, slashing his knife along the man's neck and spinning into a tight circle. An arrow landed at his feet, and his eyes flicked up to trace the trajectory, a man on a platform to the north.

Nodding, he grabbed a fistful of a Templar's chain mail and shoved him aside, knocking him into de Sable and another Templar before running at full speed, shoving a city guard away and then all but leaping up a ladder. The archer already had his sword drawn, but Altair was quick to grab him and throw him down, the fall breaking an arm. He could not gauge more because one of the Templars had followed him up the ladder and shoved him as well. Altair had significantly more training falling, and he was able to prevent serious injury, though he knew his shoulder would be bruised for the effort.

He had not, however, expected one of the Templar's booted and heavily armored feet to slam into his left hand, and pain exploded up his arm as he jerked the limb out from under the foot. Altair held it close to his chest, waiting for the pain to subside even as he put it out of his mind; his sword arm still worked, and with it he deflected another strike, this time from de Sable himself. Altair blocked it and kicked the grandmaster aside - he couldn't deal with someone that well trained yet, not until the others were dead.

A city guard advanced next, and Altair ducked under the obvious strike, shoving his short sword into the man's foot, the man's cry dying quickly as the assassin's jerking of the sword out of the wound created another slash at the man's throat. Two city guards were dead as was one of the archers; that left the four Templars, de Sable, and another archer somewhere in the citadel.

Altair ran from the pack, back the way he had come and under the shade of the enormous Saracen flag. Turning, he took a deep breath and fought through the pain in his hand to grab another knife. He couldn't do it; two fingers were likely broken and he couldn't hold the weapon right to throw it. He had little time to react other than to snarl as one of the Templars made his advance. Altair pulled his short sword up in defense, deflecting a strike and kicking him aside as a second moved to take over. Holding off that blow sent shudders up his good arm, but Altair saw an opening and was able to painfully grab the man with his injured hand and stab him - once, twice, into the collarbone before shoving him aside.

The Templar he had knocked away was back now; with Altair in the corner as he was they could not surround him. He did not have as much room to maneuver as he would have liked, but they, too, had little room and assassins were used to fighting one on many, unlike Templars who trained in one on one duels or battalions. A massive swing came that Altair didn't even have to block, it banged against the wall of the citadel before it could complete its arc and Altair used the split second advantage to plunge his sword deep into the man's leg where there was no chain mail. Then he forcibly pulled the blade out of the wound, severing muscle and blood vessels both, holding it up to guard against a third Templar.

"Heathen murderer!" the Templar said, furious to see two compatriots fall.

Robert stepped in next, still reticent, but Altair deflected the blade and rammed a shoulder in under the grandmaster's guard, knocking him aside. He would be last, so the assassin could savor the death and learn everything he could.

"You'll pay for this!" the Templar said again, giving a perfect feint and grabbing Altair's robes. The assassin tried to grab at the fist but the Templar was too good, and soon he was rolling into the stone cross of a grave, bruising his shoulder further and stiffening his back. In pulling himself to his feet he put his weight on his bad hand and his broken fingers protested loudly. It was enough of a distraction for something to strike the side of his head and for a moment all he saw were stars. He rolled blindly to the side, his head pulsing in pain, and somehow managed to block a blow from above. His vision swam, but his muscle memory did not need his sight - once he saw the downward slash his body did the rest, spinning dizzily under the strike, around behind the Templar, and practically shoving his sword into the back of the knees, severing ligaments and shattering bone.

That left only one Templar and de Sable. No, only de Sable. When had the fourth Templar been killed? Altair shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He could feel blood sliding down his temple, too far from his mouth to lick it aside. An arrow struck his abdomen, but the leather belts protected him from any damage, and the shock of it made him aware of de Sable advancing on him. Altair moved to deflect the blow but the short sword was knocked out of his hand.

Growling, he pulled out his sword, training his eyes on the grandmaster. There were none left now, aside from the archer, and with that thought he slowly started backing up, looking to press himself against another wall and let Robert be his cover. De Sable knew this, and moved to grab him. Altair would have none of that, not again, and side stepped, the two wearily circling each other. Altair would never attack - not like at the temple - assassins _defended_ peace, they _waited_ it, for people to discover wisdom, and that was something a Templar could never understand. They were action. Assassins were _re_ action.

Altair painfully grabbed the arrow caught in his belts and snapped it off, backing up further. Robert at last lost patience and advanced. The assassin blocked the strike, the force of the blow traveling up his arm but ultimately ignored as Altair guided the sword away. He spun around, trying to angle into de Sable's defense but the grandmaster refused, blocking the blow by striking at the assassin's arm. Strange that he did not go for his neck as before. Altair traded a few blows and strikes, neither managing to land anything on either one. Robert had skill - to be expected from a grandmaster of course - but there was an inherent grace in his moves, an efficiency in his movement, that Altair appreciated in the technical part of his mind. The rest of him hated it however, because it made his work harder and de Sable's death longer in coming.

In the end, though, the drawn out fight was a boon to Altair, because his vision finally cleared even if the headache did not, and de Sable clearly did not have the stamina for protracted battle. His blows were weak, not up to par with a man who'd trained since birth, and finally Altair was able to overpower his assailant. Knocking the sword away, he grabbed Robert with his broken hand, willfully ignorant of the pain, and pulling him towards Altair - the direction de Sable was not expecting - and spinning around, using the momentum to slam de Sable into a wall and shoving his arm against the man's neck.

Had Robert de Sable always been this short? Or had Altair's mind made him appear larger than he was?

Regardless, the archer could not see him now, and now he would fulfill his mission.

"I would see your eyes before you die," he said slowly, softly. They were both panting. His good hand reached up and ripped the helmet off, ready to see the look in that grandmast-

A soft, circular face appeared under the helmet, pale, smooth skin, arched eyebrows, pink lips. A woman?

"I sense you expected someone else," she said in Arabic, her words dry.

... A _woman_? But... but de Sable was _here_! The Templars were _here_! Another trick? Like when Al Mualim had given him a vision of his death? No, that wasn't possible, it couldn't be! The blow to his head? But... How... what... what...

"... What sorcery is this?" he shouted.

"No sorcery," she answered calmly, looking Altair directly in the eye. "We knew you'd come. Robert needed to be sure he had time to get away."

"So he flees!" The coward was running away! Treachery!

"We cannot deny your success," the woman said simply, shrugging her shoulders under the weight of Altair's arm pressed against her. "You have laid waste to our plans, first the treasure then our men. Control of the Holy Land slipped away." She smiled, soft and supple, but also hard and vindictive. "But then he saw an opportunity. To reclaim what has been stolen, to turn your victories to our advantage."

That was impossible. Altair shook his head in denial. The Order had all the advantages.

"Al Mualim still holds your treasure, and we've routed your army before. Whatever Robert plans, he'll fail again."

The woman smiled again. "Ah," she said coyly, "but it's not just Templars you'll contend with now."

Who else would there be?

"Speak sense!" he demanded.

"Robert rides for Arsuf to plead his case, that Saracen and Crusader unite against the assassins."

Saracen and Crusader? United? That was impossible. And against the assassins? "That will never happen," Altair said, staring at the woman. "They have no reason to."

Another smirk. "Had, perhaps," she said. "But now you've given them one. Nine, in fact. The bodies you've left behind, victims on both sides; you've made the assassins an enemy in common and ensured the annihilation of your entire order. Well done."

The moment hung in the air, the woman staring at him and reveling in the slow dawning of horror across Altair's face as it all came crashing down in his mind. Three Crusaders, six Saracens. The treaty with Salah ad-Din would be null and void if he realized the assassins were involved with Jubair's death, or with Majd Addin, and Richard didn't care whom his enemies were. Masyaf was small, too small; it did not have the supplies or the forces to fight of _two armies_. If de Sable's plan worked...

It would be a disaster!

Altair growled, energy taught in his muscles as he struggled to think rationally. He glared at the woman for a long, long time, staring into her eyes, before he took a deep breath.

"... Not nine," he said. "Eight." He released his arm from her neck and stepped back.

The woman blinked several times, openly shocked at the gesture. "... What do you mean?" she demanded.

"You are not my target, I will not take your life." The first tenet of the Creed: Stay the blade from the flesh of the innocent. "You're free to go, but do not follow me."

She stared at him, still confused, before a haughty look finally filled her face. "I don't need to," she said, unable to hide the defensiveness in her voice. "You're already too late."

She turned and ran away.

"...We'll see," Altair whispered.

There was still the archer to deal with, and so he sheathed his sword and pulled out a knife, aiming with his right hand instead of his left and stepping out of his cover. The blade flicked from his hand and he bent down to retrieve his short sword, sheathing it without even looking up as the archer gave a dull thud to the ground. He stepped over the bodies at his feet and carefully eyed the gates, wary of what lay before him. The city alarms were ringing, everyone knew the assassin was in the city; he looked a bloody mess, and his broken fingers and blow to his head made him vulnerable. His first priority was finding a ladder, the second tenet of the Creed: Hide in plain sight.

First stop would be the Bureau, he needed to tell Malik what was happening, maybe get him to ride to Masyaf while he rode to Arsuf. He would be _damned_ if he brought another attack to Masyaf, not while there was breath still in him. The third tenet of the Creed: Do not compromise the brotherhood. He would die before he did it again.

With that resolve, he took a deep breath and boldly marched out to the streets. He was too bloody to pass for anything other than what he was, and he turned south, crossing into the Jewish Quarter, looking for an alley or a ladder to disappear in.

It was not to be.

"There he is!"

"Get him!"

Cursing Altair dashed down a main street, shouting, "Get away! Get away or you'll be killed!" and shoving a poor woman with a jar out of harm’s way and leaping up two crates and a lantern beam, trying to get to the roofs. One of the guards threw a stone, however, and hit his already throbbing head. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, disorientated. He managed to pull himself to his feet - how he did not know - and stumbled away from the guards and took off running again. He did not have the energy to fight, and so he ran.

He ducked into an alley that lead out to another main street; people were staring again but he could do nothing about it as he made a hard right, ran several meters, and then another hard right into a courtyard. Two people were there, staring at Altair in shock. The assassin cursed.

"Forgive me," he said quickly. "I'll be gone in a moment," before taking a running leap up the back wall of the courtyard, grabbing a beam and hoisting himself up and then jumping to reach a crack in the wall. In his hurry he had once more forgotten about his broken fingers and fell several feet to the ground, the handle of his sword digging into his hip. He could hear the cries of the guards behind him; he would have to run out.

Cursing more, he moved to get up but one of the people touched his shoulder, a woman, offering a soft, "Shh."

The other occupant of the courtyard, a man, stepped out and started pointing. "Did you see him? A man covered in blood! He ran that way, that way!"

The guards ran by, not once looking in.

"Are they gone?" the woman asked.

"Yes. I think so," the man said.

"Praise God," she said, sighing in relief.

"Are you sure it's him?" the man asked.

"Yes, I recognize the hood," the woman said. She turned to Altair. "Do you remember me?" she asked. "You saved me from the city guard raping me."

Altair blinked, exhausted, trying to remember. Majd Addin's investigation... right?

"My, you're handsome under the hood," the woman said. "But you're exhausted. I'll get you some water. My husband will keep the guards distracted."

The assassin couldn't quite believe it, but everything was so numb he just mutely accepted the cup of water, sipping it slowly and waiting for the throbbing in his head to die away.

"You've no idea how grateful I am that you saved her," the husband said softly. "I care not what others think, to me you are a hero."

Altair shook his head, the motion causing pain. "I am not one to be lauded," he said softly. He rubbed his forehead, trying to get the throbbing to go away.

The wife picked up on it right away. "He's been hurt," she said, "We need to get a doctor."

"No, no," Altair said swiftly. He stood, swaying on his feet as a wave of dizziness overtook him, but held firm. "My presence here is a danger to you, I'll not risk it. Thank you, but I must go." He returned the cup and eyed the street before taking the posture of a scholar and slipping out. He could not hide the bloody robes, however, and inside of fifty heartbeats a guard spotted him.

"You cannot run forever!"

Altair begged to differ as he sprinted down the streets, the adrenaline pumping and making his head hurt even more. The one guard quickly grew to over a dozen and someone somewhere threw another rock. It didn't hit his head, thank goodness, but an archer placed an arrow at his feet and he tripped over himself trying to jump it.

"He's tiring himself!" someone cried out, but Altair's reply to that was to dive through a merchant stand, smashing pots and jars and plates, using the commotion to bank a hard left down an alley, barreling through a degenerate, and exiting out on another street. He'd somehow crossed back into the Christian Quarter and he at last found a ladder, all but leaping towards it and beginning to climb.

To his disappointment, however, an archer appeared on the roofline. He kicked the ladder away from the building and Altair crashed into the guards giving chase. Panting, the assassin felt and arm wrap around him and drag him up, his vision was blurry again and it was work to get is feet under himself before yanking his arm away, a hand on his sword to draw it.

"Wait, wait, my friend," a withered old man was saying. "I'm trying to help you."

Altair stared at the man, unbelieving, before he heard a curse from a guard and ran away, down yet another alley. He burst into a main square of some sort, dozens of eyes on him, and someone pointed.

"It's him!"

Feeling much like one of Rauf's training dummies, he made a mad dash down the street. The guards chasing him were quick to spot him, and Altair was certain the entire _city_ knew where he was at this rate.

A bearded man stepped in front of him, and the assassin nearly fell over trying to avoid him. The man gave a great cry, however, and then ran _towards the guards_. Unable to fully comprehend it, Altair allowed himself only a moment to stare as the man grabbed the wrists of one of the guards and tried to hold him. That was all he had time for before he was on the run again, dashing up crates and then down them, trying to make himself difficult to track.

A woman pointed, "It's safer that way!" before shrieking and dropping her jar in front of the guards, demanding restitution. Two men, brothers perhaps, ran straight at - and then straight past - Altair and barreled into the guards. Another woman threw something onto the road, and a massive dog leapt for it, tripping several guards. A withered old man simply said, "God praise you, boy!" while a man and woman beckoned him to come into their courtyard.

Confused, Altair finally slowed down, there were no guards in his immediate line of sight, and sat down on the first bench he could find, trying to get his breathing under control and for his head to stop throbbing. He hunched in over himself, trying to hide the bloodstains. It was afternoon now, he had to hurry to the Bureau and then to Arsuf, he was running out of time. His thoughts were scattered and hard to catch, but he remembered all too well the vision of the Templars assaulting Masyaf, the burning buildings and the slaughter and the bodies. _He_ was responsible for it then, and he would be responsible for it again if he could not stop it.

He shook his head in spite of the pain. Not again. _Not again._

"Friend," a man whispered, "The guards are coming, you need to move."

Altair looked up to see a scholar, the scholar he had saved before, with two of his merchant sons. He blinked, shocked to see him.

"Move!" the scholar said.

Altair did, he surged to his feet and almost immediately put a hand to his head, trying to fight off the dizziness.

"We heard right, you are injured."

"... 'heard'?" Altair questioned.

"Never mind that now," one of the merchant sons said. "This way."

The four men left the alley and out into a main street. They were in the Muslim Quarter now, and further up the street Altair could see two guards being assaulted by three merchants and a woman. Altair's eyes lingered on it before turning away to see another guard being accosted by a woman accusing him of breaking her jar and demanded that he pay for the damages. Another street had a collection of scholars having a heated debate with a patrol, demanding to know why they had the audacity to walk around with drawn swords.

What... What was happening?

He looked to the scholar. "He saves the lives of many and still he does not understand that the grateful will find a way to repay him," the scholar said to one of his sons, though Altair was the obvious target of the words.

A bearded old man sicced his dog on a patrol, children cried in front of a guard demanding to know where mommy was, a merchant physically grabbed the hand of a guard to have him look at his wares.

Altair was amazed.

"Where are you going?" one of the sons asked.

"... The roofs," Altair said, unable to stop himself. He couldn't believe what was happening. "Once I'm there I can get to safety."

"My place, then," the other son said. "It's near here and I can pull out a ladder. My wife can tend you, too, while I dig it out."

And so it was that the four men entered a small courtyard shaded with a palm tree, the two sons disappearing to get the ladder and the scholar looking over the bloody Altair. The two said nothing, Altair because he was at a loss for words and the scholar just looking on kindly, a knowing look in his eyes. A woman, presumably the wife of the merchant, came out with water and ripped strips of cloth, but Altair politely refused. If he would accept their help, the _city's_ help, then he would leave no traces of his presence, and that included lost medical supplies - better the Bureau doctor look at him - assuming he had time, then endanger these people more than he had to.

His mind was swimming again, and it seemed almost instantaneous that the brothers returned with the ladder, and Altair bowed his head before climbing it, mindful of his painfully broken fingers, and cresting the roof. There were no archers in his immediate area, and he could see the guard tower that marked where the Bureau was.

Exhausted, injured, dizzy, he made his way to safety. The late afternoon sun kept trying to blind him, spots filled his eyes and his body had long run out of adrenaline to fuel his speed. His mind was so empty he almost walked by the Bureau entrance, and as it was he misjudged a step and fell down into the roof's entrance. It was only through sheer luck that he did not hit the fountain in his fall, as it was his fingers broke even further, and all he could do was lay on the floor, trying to pull himself together. Grunting, he got himself to his feet.

Malik was at the counter. He stared in disbelief at the state of the master assassin. For the moment, they were alone.

"It was a trap!" Altair growled, holding his head as it suddenly throbbed painfully. His vision blurred again.

"I had heard the funeral turned to chaos," Malik answered, eyeing him. "What happened?"

"Robert de Sable was never there," Altair answered, wishing his head would stop hurting. Why were there two Malik's? "He sent another in his stead, he was expecting me. The decoy was watching for me... The Templars," he continued, trying to concentrate, "they're going... to..."

Another wave of dizziness hit him and he quickly grabbed the counter to keep himself upright. His breath came out in a hot puff, and he could perceive very little beyond the pain.

"Altair! Halim, get the doctor! Seosamh, Saadah, help me carry him!"

* * *

He did not know how long he was out, but when he next opened his eyes his head felt significantly better, the throbbing and blurred vision reduced to a dull ache. Blinking slowly, he looked down to his left hand to see his fingers had been treated and wrapped, as was his head.

_"Robert rides for Arsuf to plead his case, that Saracen and Crusader unite against the assassins."_

Not again.

Altair cursed, pulling himself upright and moaning against all the aches and pains he felt in his shoulder, in his hip. He stretched as best he could as he pulled on a fresh uniform, belting his swords and strapping on his hidden blade. There was no time to lose, he'd lost too much time as it was, he had to get moving.

He started off with a slight limp, but it eased up as he made his way to the back room. Malik was there, and he looked shocked to see the master assassin up. "What are you _doing_?"

"We've been deceived! Robert has long since left Jerusalem. Arsuf is his destination - and so it will be mine as well. I only hope I will not be too late. There's no time, I have to go," Altair said. His head ached but he could more than ignore it.

"No," Malik corrected, "You must go to Al Mualim."

"There's no time," Altair pressed, "The decoy, she told me where he's gone, what he plans. If I return to Masyaf he might succeed. And then, I fear we'll be destroyed."

Malik looked confused, he shook his head, walking around the counter and grabbing Altair's arm. "We have killed most of his men. He cannot hope to mount a proper attack. Wait," he said, pausing. "Did you say 'she'?"

"Yes, it was a woman," Altair said. Her face filled his mind but he waved a hand in dismissal. "Strange, I know, but that's for another time. For now we must focus on Robert. We may have thinned his ranks but the man is clever, he goes to plead his case to Richard and Salah ad-Din - to unite them against a common enemy. Against _us._ If Robert succeeds in convincing Richard and Salah ad-Din we are the enemy; the assassins will be destroyed. We cannot withstand the combined might of the Saracen and Crusader armies."

Color drained from Malik's face as he absorbed the implication. His eyes closed, head shaking slightly, and his hand moved to rub his forehead.

"Surely you are mistaken," he said, though whom he was trying to convince was hard to tell. "This makes no sense. These two men would never-"

"Oh, but they would," Altair pressed, pulling himself out of Malik's grip, "And we have ourselves to blame. _Myself_ to blame. The men I've killed, men on both sides of the conflict, men important to both leaders. Garnier, William, Sibrand, Jubair, Majd Addin, all men close to Richard and Salah ad-Din; their deaths drew attention to us, to the Order. Robert's plan may be ambitious but it makes sense. So much sense." He shook his head, still marveling at the cleverness of it all. "And it could work. It could _work._ I can't let it happen. Not again. I won't be the reason Masyaf is attacked _again_."

Malik was struggling as much as Altair was, his scraggly beard pressed behind an enormous frown, his eyebrows knotted together and staring, trying to absorb what Altair was telling him.

"Look, brother," the _dai_ said, sounding almost pleading. "Things have changed. You must return to Masyaf, we _cannot_ act without our Master's permission. It could compromise the brotherhood. I thought..." His expression changed; suddenly he looked pained. "I thought you had learned this."

Angry at the delays, angry at Malik's accusation, _furious_ with the fate about to fall his beloved order, Altair slammed his good fist onto the counter, as much as to channel his anger elsewhere to prevent him striking his best friend as to get the _dai's_ attention.

"Stop hiding behind words, Malik! You wield the Creed and its tenets like some shield!" He shook a finger at the other man. "He's keeping things from us, important things! _You_ were the one who told me we could never 'know' anything, only suspect." He paced about the back room. "Well _I_ suspect this business with the Templars goes deeper. Al Mualim claims Robert is trying to gain peace, but the man wishes to capture the cities and use their denizens as soldiers in an army - soldiers free of thought either through poison or from that harmless piece of silver you captured in Solomon's Temple. If he desires peace why would he build an army? Why do they and the Master think so much of their treasure? I don't know how deep this goes!"

He let out a deep, frustrated breath. "I ride for Arsuf. When I'm done with Robert I will ride for Masyaf that we may have answers, but perhaps _you_ could go now."

That openly shocked Malik, the _dai_ not expecting such a request. He immediately tried to deny it. "I cannot leave the city."

Altair growled and rubbed his forehead again.

"Then walk amongst its people! Seek out those who serve the ones I slew, learn what you can."

The two stared at each other in the dim room, their wills battling back and forth.

"You call yourself perceptive," Altair said finally, "perhaps you'll see something I could not."

Malik looked away.

"... I don't know. I must think on this."

It was the best he would get. Altair sighed again, acknowledging the _dai_. "Do what you must, my friend, but it's time I ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay, our enemy gets one step ahead of me."

He stared a moment more, but then, "Be careful brother."

"I will be, I promise."

Altair leapt up the courtyard and left the Bureau.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirror, when she read through this spent a lot of her time openly cheering at the computer screen. She never expected the city of Jerusalem helping one lone assassin, and so we hope that it comes as a pleasant surprise for all of you as well.
> 
> There's actually not much to say about this chapter, it follows the game almost verbatim, very little in the way of tweaking was necessary. Well, except for injuring Altair, of course, that just had to happen. We both agreed early on that there was no way he could go through the game - and especially the end of it - without sustaining an injury or two, and so we debated back and forth quite heavily on how roughed up he wold by at certain stages. Here, we have two broken fingers and a severe headache, perhaps a concussion, that had to be treated before he left. One can imagine how he'll fair after the next few chapters. (knowing laughter).
> 
> Maria we debated about quite heavily, but ultimately this is only their first meeting; Altair doesn't have time to fully process who he's talking to at this point, only that she's a woman and (whether he recognizes it or not) quite pretty. Crushing on her, in our opinion, doesn't really happen until the Bloodlines game - at least that's our supposition since we don't have a PSP to play it. If nothing else, she certainly made an impression on him, and we cross our fingers and hope the "What sorcery is this?" crack makes a little more sense.
> 
> Desmond had a small blip on the radar - even he didn't like being exposed like that - but he'll really get to shine when he gets out of the Animus.
> 
> And we finally got our hands on the Secret Crusade. Here's hoping this project is comparable!
> 
> Next chapter: Death of a Templar, Take Two.


	24. Death of a Templar II

It took four days to even approach Richard's march down the coast to Arsuf. Every day provided Altair with the difficult decision of pushing his horse as fast as possible or remaining conservative enough to let his injuries heal. Because there was no doubt that when he reached Richard, he would see de Sable. And that would be a fight Altair had no desire of losing again. The previous encounter had failed miserably due to Altair's arrogance, true, but de Sable was indeed a strong and strategic opponent, if this insane move to unite Richard and Salah ad-Din was any indication. Altair would need his wits clear and focused and his body at peak precision.

Or as peak as it could be with broken fingers and vision that would waver if too long in the saddle, to say nothing of the pounding headache that simple riding could provide.

So Altair tried to find a middle ground. He took rest breaks, both to keep his horse in faster condition, and to push aside the blood pounding in his mind and clouding his vision. It was frustratingly slow, but Altair kept to his pace rigidly, refusing to rush and do injury either to himself or his horse as that would lead to a catastrophe in Masyaf.

Richard had clearly learned from the Battle of Hattin four years previous, and was refusing to even take the ancient Roman roads in favor of maintaining a steady supply train with his ships that followed him down the coast and fresh water. Indeed, he seemed to only have his men march for half the day, as Altair was certain that Richard's army should have been at Arsuf in half the time if they kept a steady march all day.

It also appeared that Richard was maintaining a solid grip of discipline and control on his men, which was strange for a Crusader. From what Altair understood of Christians, they took their troops from their noble classes, who had training, and from the fields. Peasants and merchants, those who had no training. Yet they weren't breaking rank.

And Richard's troops certainly had good reason to break rank.

That clear September morning, just as Altair crested yet another of the wooded hills that lined the coast, he saw through a break in the trees that Salah ad-Din's whole army was there, marching parallel and along the rear of Richard's column of men. The whole day as Altair rushed forward, the Saracens were firing volley after volley of arrows into the Christian lines, mounted archers galloped forward and attacked before retreating. Everything Salah ad-Din did was to try and provoke a response so that he could fight on ground of his choosing.

Richard, however, was a Crusader through and through. From what Altair had learned, Crusaders never fought actual pitched battles. They much preferred to simply lay a siege. Richard's control over his men appeared phenomenal whenever Altair saw them through the branches or crested a hill. Despite repeated provocations, they continued to hold their positions.

It would appear that Richard was as strong a leader as Salah ad-Din.

But the morning was the only time Altair truly had to observe. By mid-morning he was trying to push through Saracen lines on foot. Richard was in that tight knot of Crusaders backed by their ships and Altair needed to talk to him. Likely face off with Robert de Sable as well.

The first line of archers were reserves, young recruits still untested who were bunching arrows to send to the front line. Getting past them was simplicity.

The problem was once Altair was past them he was in the fight. He had to ghost between Saracen lines, which was no easy feat. There were almost forty-thousand troops packed into a tiny two mile square of the ruins of Arsuf and finding a path through the Saracen lines that didn't involve being seen was impossible.

Altair was spotted for the first time shortly after he infiltrated the Saracen army. It was a sharp-eyed archer who had climbed a tree to get a better sight on Richard's army that saw a white shadow darting amongst the browns and earth tones of Salah ad-Din's army. The arrow loosed flew right by Altair's ear, the wind of it making his hood flutter. Altair quickly ducked behind rocks and crawled through low-lying brush on his stomach and didn't encounter any other arrows.

As he made his way through the Saracen troops, Altair did make a point of passing within easy site of Salah ad-Din. He did so as a reminder. Fifteen years earlier, the charismatic sultan had tried to wage war on the Assassins. Al Mualim had dissuaded him from the idea by sending his assassin's into the sultan's camp and leaving hot scones by Salah ad-Din's bedside in the Assassin symbol of a compass in a cup and a knife with a note to leave. Altair's own father had performed the mission - though the final outcome of it still gave the master assassin a foul taste in his mouth.

Needless to say, Salah ad-Din would never cross the Assassins without good reason and a much better army.

But given de Sable's silver tongue and adept trickery, Altair felt showing himself would be a good reminder for the sultan that he never knew when a white hood might appear. That way, even if he failed in killing de Sable or convincing Richard, Salah ad-Din would think twice before assaulting Masyaf.

The next time Altair was seen, he'd made it to the front line of archers. There, the Saracens were all side-by-side, aiming their arrows to the tightly packed Crusader forces. There was no way for Altair to avoid being seen. Instead, he started running, pushing through the archers, and hurrying down the hill as arrows chased after him.

Running forward, Altair broke through the front line of archers by diving through them, rolling and exiting the roll at a full run. Behind him he could hear archers crying out indignation and some broke ranks to follow. Commanders called for them to return, but the break in the line that Altair had made seemed to be just what the Hospitalier Knights ahead of him needed.

Waves of Crusaders broke ranks and plunged forward to take advantage of the Saracen disarray, Richard's discipline finally breaking. No doubt the Crusaders were frustrated with holding their position under continuous assault. Particularly the Hospitalier, who brought up the rear and had needed to walk backwards and fire off their bows which made keeping formation difficult, to say nothing of the constant assault of the Saracens.

All around Altair things dissolved into chaos. Saracens exhausted from hours of provocation faced off hand-to-hand with angry Hospitaliers who didn't even have enough horses for a proper charge due to the constant rain of arrows. This worked to Altair's advantage, as it was easy to lose himself in the chaos. Both armies were more interested in each other.

Unfortunately, in the messy hand-to-hand that surrounded him, the occasional soldier did recognize h _im this is going to suck! Lea_ ving Altair just as involved in the fighting as the troops. He did try to avoid direct combat, but once someone recognized his white hood and confronted him, he had no choice. Altair lost track of how many he felled, but his robes became more and more stained with mud and blood.

In all the chaos, Altair thought he spied Richard amongst all the men, fighting like a seasoned veteran and cutting down any Saracen before him.

Naturally, Altair tried to fight his way to the English King. Two Saracens got in his way. Altair was already out of throwing knives and he raised his long sword to block, but the blow never came. A Crusader had come up behind the two Saracens and in one swipe sliced a back open down to the ribs and another swing dug halfway through the Muslim's head. Altair kept his sword in a block, warily eyeing the Crusader who stared at him.

"The brother of Stephen?" the Crusader asked in French.

Altair lowered his sword. "Yes."

"It's me, Pierre," the Crusader tried to show relaxed posture, or as much as possible when surrounded by so many enemies.

Altair remembered the Knight. He had helped the young lover when other Knights had attacked him. Pierre had said he was somewhat close to Richard; Altair would need to use that connection.

"I need to see Richard," Altair said. "He bears a traitor in his midst."

Pierre started to swear vociferously. "I don't know where His Majesty is in all this battle! Come, I know where you can wait!"

Around them Crusaders continued to surge forward.

"Where?" Altair asked, pulling his feet from the muddy marches of the Rachetaille River.

"His Majesty is a fine and gallant warrior," Pierre replied. "He always checks on any wounded after a fight. He'll likely be-"

The young knight's words were cut off as an arrow seemed to find a way between the kinks of his chain mail and embed itself into the back of his knee.

"Pierre!" Altair shouted, catching him as he fell. Pierre started swearing in earnest, his attempt to stand ending with his leg buckling under him as he dragged himself and Altair back down into the mud.

"It seems I now have a reason to bring you there," Altair grunted, getting his feet under him and then pulling one of Pierre's arms over his head to haul him up.

Together, muddy and bloodied, the two started to head further back along the Crusader lines even as Richard's men swept forward to attack Salah ad-Din's.

"Is that brother Stephen of yours still in Acre? I met him a few days after you saved me." Pierre asked as they picked their way through the bodies and mud.

"No," Altair replied. "He ran afoul with some knights, as you did. He was poisoned and when Brother Jacob tried to help, he was attacked as well."

"By God, will this war never end?"

Altair's thoughts paused.

Yes, he was here to stop Robert de Sable and to protect Masyaf from another assault. But that was not his only reason. Not after all he had learned. No, he was also here for the people of the Holy Land. This war had led to the enslavement, poisoning, murder and oppression of everyone, be they Christian, Muslim, or Jew. Killing Richard or Salah ad-Din would, as Al Mualim predicted, lead to ten thousand warriors aimless and without direction and it would be horrible. But surely there was a way to stop this war?

Salah ad-Din was losing this battle, of this Altair was fairly certain, given the cries of the Crusaders who ran by to attack. Salah ad-Din would be humbled with this victory, and hopefully start to think of means other than war to settle disputes. Richard was far from home and would need to return, taking his soldiers with him.

But this was assuming that Arsuf was the last battle. It likely would not be. Both armies were proving evenly matched. This would either end it all or it would continue. Either the people could return to their peaceful lives, or they would continue to suffer.

Altair was tired of seeing people suffer. Of people like Adha being taken. Of people like Kadar dying.

Altair wanted peace.

"Pierre? Is that you?" a young teenager ran forward, also speaking French.

"Raul! Help us!"

"Us?" The teenager who had been so focused on Pierre finally looked to Altair. "Saracen! Pierre, you bring an enemy amongst us!"

The knight let out a low laugh. "My friend, I see why you hide in that hood. It seems ignorance knows no bounds."

Altair only smiled. "Would that more would see me as you and Brother Jacob did."

"Hah!" Pierre laughed, still limping along. "I only saw reason because you saved my life."

"Pierre!" young Raul growled. "You converse with an enemy, laugh with an enemy! Are you a spy for the damned Saracens?"

"Raul, stop being a brat," Pierre snapped back. "Help me along or my dearest will never let you filch her bread again!"

Raul pouted, looking far younger than he was, before stepping forward to grab Pierre's other arm.

"And how is your beloved?" Altair asked. Conversation started to flow and with all of them speaking French, the eyes that looked to Altair hesitated before turning away. Raul eventually got a heroic rendition of Altair helping Pierre, despite Altair's protests at the exaggeration going on as they finally came to a camp where other wounded were being treated. Or buried.

One glance around was enough for Altair to not trust any priest that came over to call upon the power of God to heal them so he set about work pulling the arrow out of Pierre's leg, explaining each step and why it was important. He pulled the arrow, washed the wound with water from his own water-skin, and wrapped it with the cleanest cloth he could find. He gave the best prognosis he could.

"It will depend on how it heals," he explained. "You will likely be able to walk, if you stay off it for now as I have suggested, but I am uncertain if it will heal straight. You may have a permanent limp after this, along with general weakness in the leg for the rest of your life."

Pierre chuckled. "As long as I have a life to live with my dearest, I won't complain. It seems you have saved me again."

Altair shook his head. "You have saved me. When King Richard returns, I will speak to him of the traitor in his midst."

Out of necessity, Altair stayed with Pierre, letting conversation flow again. Despite being covered in mud and blood, he kept his posture harmless and deferential. Let him appear as a slave and thus others would turn a blind eye.

It was approaching late afternoon when Altair left Pierre resting and with strict instructions to Raul to keep him resting, so that he might find Richard.

The battle had been won. Salah ad-Din had been routed and stories were already circulating of Richard's bravery and gallantry in the fight. If Pierre was correct, then Richard would start circulating the injured to check them. Altair did not wish to be seen just yet so he stuck to the lengthening shadows to watch and observe. To talk to Richard now would be pointless. De Sable was not there and the fight Altair was anticipating would end up being around injured who could not defend themselves. This, Altair would not abide, so he waited. Pierre had said that after checking the wounded, Richard would confer with the other leaders of the Crusade, which was when Altair would speak. There was also the increased likelihood of de Sable being there to plead his case, which would give Altair the chance to finally kill him.

As twilight started to fall, Altair followed Richard to the ruins in Arsuf, and finally made his presence known.

"Come no further!" a knight barked out, reaching for his sword.

Altair replied in English as well. "Hold a moment! It's words I bring, not steel!"

Richard stepped forward, surrounded by Templars and English knights. "Offering terms of surrender then?" The English king bore hair as fiery as the red robes he wore over his chain mail. His face was slick with sweat, matting his hair and beard as he stood strong in the slowly rising mist. "It's about time."

"You misunderstand," Altair replied. No doubt Richard thought him an envoy of Salah ad-Din, and it would be best to correct that notion swiftly. "It's Al Mualim who sends me, not Salah ad-Din."

"Assassin," Richard growled, his French accent thickening and his voice getting hoarser after a day of shouting commands. "What is the meaning of this? And be quick with it!"

"You've a traitor in your midst," Altair shot back.

Richard scoffed. "And he has hired you to kill me? Come to gloat about it before you strike?" The king narrowed his eyes. "I won't be taken so easily!"

"It's not _you_ I've come to kill," Altair shouted back. "It's him. The traitor."

Richard straightened, an eyebrow raised, showing the answer surprised him. "Speak then. That I might judge the truth. Who is this traitor?"

Altair stepped forward, the knights and Templars stepping away so that he had a clear path. In respect of their caution, he stopped at a safe distance from Richard to show he was no threat. "Robert de Sable."

"My lieutenant?" Richard paused, then laughed.

"He aims to betray," Altair insisted.

"That's not the way he tells it," Richard replied, nodding to a helmeted man by his side. "He seeks revenge against your people for the havoc you've wrought in Acre."

And de Sable was twisting the truth once more. Really, Altair was hardly surprised.

"I am inclined to support him," Richard continued. "Some of my best men were murdered by some of yours."

"It was _I_ who killed them, and for good reason," Altair replied hotly. Better to draw blame on himself, keep attention away from the brotherhood, the third tenet of the Creed. "Hear me out: William of Montferrat, he sought to use his soldiers to take Acre by force. Garnier de Naplouse, he would use his skills to indoctrinate and control any who resisted. Sibrand, he intended to block the ports, preventing your kingdom from providing aide. They betrayed you, and they took their orders from Robert."

Around him the Templars stepped carefully, encircling him.

Richard scowled. "You expect me to believe this outlandish tale?"

"You knew these men," Altair countered. "Better than I. Are you truly surprised to learn of their ill intentions?"

The English king paused, thinking, before turning to the helmeted man beside him. "Is this true?"

The helmet came off revealing the scared and bald de Sable. "My Liege," he bowed. "It is an assassin that stands before us," he said calmly, his French accent thicker than Richard's. "These creatures are masters of manipulation. Of _course_ it isn't true."

De Sable was one to talk.

Altair kept his eyes on Richard. "I've no reason to deceive."

"Oh," de Sable replied with a smile, "but you do. You're afraid of what would happen to your little fortress. Can it withstand the combined might of the Saracen and Crusader armies?"

Altair frowned and narrowed his eyes. "My concern is for the people of the Holy Land. If I must sacrifice myself for there to be peace, so be it."

Richard's brows raised and he looked to the assassin in fresh contemplation. "This is a strange place we find ourselves in," he said slowly. "Each of you accusing the other..."

Robert de Sable must have sensed Richard's hesitation, sensed that Richard as a warrior had respected Altair's offer to die for peace. "There really is no time for this," de Sable insisted. "I must be off to meet with Saladin and enlist his aide. The longer we delay, the harder this will become." He turned to leave.

"Hold a moment, Robert," Richard commanded.

"Why? What do you intend?" He gave a small laugh. "Surely you do not believe him," he gestured to Altair.

"It is a difficult decision," Richard replied, looking between de Sable and Altair. "One I cannot make alone. I must leave it in the hands of one wiser than I am."

"Thank you," de Sable bowed his head with a triumphant smirk.

"No, Robert, not you."

"Then _who_?"

Richard tilted his head back and looked to the slowly appearing stars. "The Lord."

Altair frowned, wondering what this meant.

"Let this be decided by combat," Richard announced. "Surely God will side with the one whose cause is righteous."

"If this is what you wish," Robert bowed with mockery.

"It _is_."

"So be it."

Altair, who had remained silent, watched de Sable put on his helmet and held back a smile. For all that he had learned, for all that he had grown, there was a part of him that rejoiced at the idea of _finally_ killing this enemy of the Assassins. He bore no hatred. Not anymore. But cold conviction that he was doing the right thing and that this bleeding wound to the Holy land would finally be shut.

"To arms, _Assassin_!"

The ten Templars around him drew their swords with Robert.

It seemed, like with all else, the Templars would never fight fair. Richard stepped back, only raising a brow to show his surprise.

Despite his broken fingers, Altair's other injuries were no longer inhibiting. Exhaustion from riding to catch up and then fighting through two armies was gone after spending time with Pierre and quietly shadowing Richard. He was ready for this fight and perhaps if he could defeat all of them, it would appeal to the warrior in King Richard.

The ten Templars around him circled carefully, six coming forward to cut off immediate escape and the remaining four standing back in reserve. Altair pulled out his short sword, aiming for the lighter weight to prevent himself from tiring. The last week had been incredibly long and it would weigh on him if he were not careful.

One Templar came at him with a sharp cry, young and inexperienced but clearly well trained, as his form was perfect. But every form had a weakness. The young Templar slashed downward and Altair was already spinning, his short sword coming up and going right into the mouth that was open in a war cry, slicing open cheeks as the sharp edge sliced through the back of the throat and bounced off the bone of the skull. Blood and bits of cranium flowed out with Altair's sword as he spun under the swing of another Templar and he reassessed all their positions.

One of the reserves came forward, and around the circle he was fighting, the foot soldiers of the Crusaders were staring in shock as one of their strongest went down faster than any had expected. Richard merely watched calmly, completely at ease.

Altair kept moving slowly; refusing to let his feet get stuck in the muck and mud by staying stationary. The circle around him followed, eyeing him with more caution. These men were not recently promoted youth who were brash and reckless. These men were communicating with flicks of the eye or the barest gestures of a finger.

At some unseen signal, three of the six encircling him rushed forward in a well-practiced, choreographed move designed to trap him. Altair would not be caught by such tricks, however, so he leapt up over one of the Templars, out of reach of the other two swords aiming for him, and as he flipped over, his short sword dug into the Templar's back, going between ribs and through lungs before his feet even landed, the momentum letting the master assassin pull the Templar up over his head and dislodging his sword by flinging the whole body into the circle around him and to the reserves behind them.

Altair used the opening to exit the circle, taking position again, this time with English Knights to his back and the Templars in front of him. Rather than all eight around him, only three had made it, the others still tripping through the mud in their heavy armor to regain their formation. Altair used this to his advantage.

With a war cry of his own, he spun towards the Templar on the left of the three before him. The Templar stood firm, raising his blade into a position to block any move that Altair made, but instead the master assassin switched directions at the last moment, slicing through the leg of the Templar in the middle, cutting through the bone but not completely through the leg, leaving it attached only by a single muscle.

Altair was surrounded again, stepping carefully. Two of the Templars behind him tried to take advantage of the blind spot, rushing forward. But the Assassin could hear the squelching approach and ducked under the swords, rolling forward and coming up before a different Templar. Altair punched forward, grabbing below the man's belt with his left hand and letting his hidden blade extend, slicing through the most delicate bits of flesh that made all watching gasp and wince in sympathy.

All that remained were six who stood around him in formation. There were no more reserves and Altair had not had to expend much energy.

Richard gave a nod, almost approving, with an enigmatic smile that Altair interpreted as almost respectful. The Crusaders were staring, and the master assassin thought he saw Pierre taking a seat on a rock to watch, Raul hovering by his side.

A Templar on Altair's left came charging forward. The Assassin easily raised his short sword to block, but the Templar did not swing. Instead he barreled into the assassin, knocking them both to the ground. The heavy weight of the Templar and his armor pinned Altair to the ground momentarily, and another Templar stepped forward, kicking the Assassin in the head and effectively reminding Altair that he already had been struck there but days before.

On some base instinct Altair dropped his short sword, grabbed the kicking Templar's foot, and yanked, pulling him off balance. There was a large splash of mud and Altair grabbed his short sword again, bringing it down hard to the upper arm of the man who was trying to hold him down. Above his head the Templar he had tripped was trying to get up and another Templar was coming forward to fill the gap to try and kick the downed Assassin again. But Altair's sword had cut through the chain mail of his captor and once the blade hit the bone, it slid down, pulling off muscle since Altair didn't have enough power at that angle to cut through the bone as well.

A foot kicked him in the back as Altair struggled to his feet, and he grabbed it tripping this Templar as well. To his surprise, the Templar who had grabbed him and had just had his arm ripped open grabbed at him again, despite the useless arm, so the Assassin grabbed his face and let his hidden blade penetrate the man's eye socket and going straight into the brain.

Altair rolled away, assessing again. Two Templars were covered in mud after he'd tripped them for trying to kick him while he was down and the remaining three still spread out around him, keeping him pinned. Altair shook his head briefly, the raging headache he'd put behind him returning in strong form. It was only through sheer force of will that he was able to push it aside and focus.

A Templar came from Altair's right and Altair ducked back, letting the blade swing down harmlessly in front of him. Altair retaliated by bringing his own short sword down and cleanly slicing off the Templar's nose. The Templar staggered, falling to a knee, so Altair planted his foot into the blood-covered face with a satisfying crunch of facial bones, kicking him aside.

Spinning, the master Assassin sliced into the hip of one of the muddy Templars, intending to come up and do more damage along the chest now that he was more exposed. But a different Templar was swinging behind Altair, catching a narrow but long gash along Altair's back, cutting part of the harness that held his short sword.

Altair sidestepped quickly, pulling back to take a moment to breath and assess once again. The Templar who he had cut at the hip had pulled back, placing himself in a reserve position and letting the remaining three attempt to encircle him. Altair kept taking slow steps, taking a moment to breath. He debated switching to his long sword, but he needed all his strength for de Sable. The wound on his back still felt like it was bleeding sluggishly, but would not be a problem for now. Assuming he won this fight, he would have to ensure time to bathe the wound during his ride back to Masyaf.

The Templar in front of him lunged forward, bloodlust clouding his eyes. Altair let the man come. He grabbed the man's hands and let the momentum push him down to his back. But as the Assassin rolled back, his feet caught the Templar in the stomach, pulling him up over Altair's head. Soon the Templar was on his back in the mud with Altair above him, knees coming down onto the Templars ribs and knocking the wind out of him, despite his armor. Altair's short sword sliced through the exposed neck, flinging blood and mud before he was on his feet again.

Altair wished briefly that he had his throwing knives at this point. It would make short work of the remaining three Templars. But he made do. The uninjured muddy Templar feigned in one direction and attacked from another and the Assassin let the swing pass him harmlessly before cutting off both hands neatly with his short sword and kicking him in the chest back into the mud.

Seeking to finish this, Altair charged at the uninjured Templar, short sword parallel to his forearm. He dodged the sword, which swung wide, and used both of his arms to force his short sword up in a vicious slice that cut smock, armor, and chest open, cracking the sternum open and exposing the internal organs for all to study before he turned and leapt at the remaining Templar who was muddied and barely able to move with a hip cut so deeply. This was the most merciful strike, cleanly across the throat, just deep enough to cut the jugular, but not be as painful as the previous Templars.

It was dark now, the sun completely set. The only light came from torches that were being held aloft by the Crusaders who stood watching. Robert de Sable stepped forward, pulling out his heavy broadsword.

Altair took a moment for a deep breath, straightening. He sheathed his short sword and pulled out his own long sword, keeping his eyes locked on de Sable. Calm swept over him as he took an opening stance and started circling de Sable.

Murmurs were breaking out around them, English, French, German, dialects Altair couldn't quite recognize. Richard remained immobile, watching with his arms crossed. In the flickering light of the torches it was harder to gauge his expression, but Altair was not looking. His entire focus, his entire being, was watching this Templar. The only Templar, the one who had set all this in motion. A Templar who wanted to enslave everyone to the point they could not even rise up to question, let alone act.

Altair switched his sword stance, gauging and assessing every step de Sable took. Minutes passed, each calculating and weight options.

"It's done," the Assassin said. "Your schemes, like you, are put to rest."

Robert scoffed. "You've not killed me yet."

"Perhaps. But it won't be long."

Altair lunged forward, swinging his sword in a horizontal slash. Robert blocked and the master assassin used the momentum of the repelled sword to swing around and come up diagonally from the side, but the Templar held firm.

Blades locked, Robert leaned forward, chuckling. "You know nothing of schemes," he said in Arabic, his French accent thick. "You are but a puppet. He betrayed you boy. Just as he betrayed me."

Altair pushed away the blades, giving ground and circling. Irritated at the barb Robert had thrown that made no sense but seemed to pluck a string in him that felt it was all too true.

"Speak sense, Templar," he spat back, sticking to French, "or not at all!" Altair attacked again, feigning with his sword and then delivering a powerful kick to the Templar's exposed side, sending Robert stumbling. Altair pressed his advantage, using a flurry of strikes designed to wear down strength and possibly provide small injuries that would drain even more. The chain mail prevented Altair from breaking skin, but there was no denying that Robert felt the blows.

"Nine men he sent you to kill, yes?" Robert growled, backing away and giving ground. "The nine who guarded the treasure's secret."

"What of it?"

"It wasn't nine who found the treasure, Assassin," the Templar widened his stance, shifting his weight. "Not nine, but ten."

"A _tenth_?" Altair was shocked and Robert used the surprise to land a heavy two-handed blow onto the block Altair raised that sent the master Assassin tumbling backward into the mud and scrambling for footing. Robert kept pace with every roll and scurry Altair tried to use to get his feet under him, and it wasn't until the Assassin rolled _toward_ the Templar that he knocked Robert down and was finally able to stand. "None may live who carry the secret. Give me his name!"

Both were standing, breathing hard. "Oh, but you know him well," Robert taunted, his voice and posture all smug confidence. "And I doubt very much you would take his life as willingly as you'll take mine."

" _Who_?"

"It is your master: Al Mualim."

The Templar charged forward again, the revelation slowing the Assassin's reaction just enough for Robert to gain an advantage. A slash left an open red cut along Altair's upper arm as he attempted to sidestep. The sidestep was stopped by Robert's knee connecting with his side, sending Altair down into the mud once more. Rage bubbled and boiled in Altair at the accusation, giving him strength and speed as he leapt to his feet before the Templar could use this to his advantage and, despite his broken fingers, he grabbed one of Robert's arms and swung his sword down. There wasn't enough power to cut the armor, but there was a satisfying _snap!_ as his broadsword made contact.

"He is not a Templar!"

The Templar was backpedaling, arm limp at his side, trying to put distance between them. "Did you never wonder how it is he knew so much?" he countered. "Where to find us, how many we number, what we aspire to attain?"

Yes, he _had_ wondered. But the grandmaster received information from all across the Holy Land, all across the known world. Was it really so much of a stretch to think he had gleaned something from all the information he sorted through each day?

Yet Altair had still wondered.

With a cry, the Assassin sped forward, another flurry of strikes flying, but Robert blocked each one single-handed.

"He is the master of the Assassins!"

" _Oui_. Master of lies," the Templar grunted under the assault. "You and I just two more pawns in his grand game."

Altair's foot sank further into the mud than he anticipated and de Sable attempted to use the momentum to roll him away as he had under Solomon's Temple.

The same trick wouldn't work on Altair twice. Instead he grabbed onto Robert's arm to use the Templar as the center of a pendulum swing. Coming around, he willingly threw his sword to the ground and drove his hidden blade into the gap of chain mail near the base of the neck.

The Templar coughed, blood slipping from his lips, and sank to his knees. "And now," he whispered, "with my death, only you remain. Do you think he will let you live? Knowing what you do?"

"I've no interest in the treasure," Altair said quietly.

"Ah, but _he_ does," de Sable coughed again. "The only difference between your master and I is that _he_ did not want to share."

Altair thinned his lips. From what he'd seen, de Sable didn't wish to share either, except to a chosen few. But he could not deny the logic of what the Templar had said. It made so much sense.

"Ironic isn't it?" de Sable gasped in the flickering torchlight. "That I, your greatest enemy, kept you safe from harm. But now you've taken my life. And in the process, ended your own..."

Closing the Templar's eyes, Altair took a moment to just catch his breath and be still.

Al Mualim.

A traitor to the very people he led.

Altair could not deny it. He had seen the reverence that the Master had for that piece of silver, watched him become colder and harsher. There was that strange vision of death. The Al Mualim he had followed and respected... was a lie.

And the truth must be brought out and confronted.

Around him, Altair listened to swords unsheathe, and he stood, picking up his sword once more. He had to get to Masyaf now, but there was still work here to be done.

Richard stepped forward, raising an arm to hold off the knights who were looking with pale fear at Altair and the eleven bodies at his feet. The Assassin was quite the sight, covered in mud and blood, harness hanging awkwardly with one of the straps cut, and blood leaking from his upper arm.

But the King just stood before him, and nodded. "Well fought, Assassin. It seems God favors your cause this day."

Still struggling to assimilate what he'd just learned, Altair shook his head, favoring instead to correct the thought. "God had nothing to do with it. I was the better fighter."

Richard laughed, a smile stretching his bushy red beard. "Aaah, you may not believe in Him, but it seems He believes in you."

Altair let the difference of opinion pass.

"Before you go," Richard started to walk and Altair strode by his side. "I have a question."

"Ask it then."

"Why?" Richard asked. "Why travel all this way, risk your life a thousand times, all to kill a single man?"

The Assassin smiled under the mud and blood, hollow in light of what he had learned, but the distraction of the king was infinitely better; his question had such a simple and complex answer. "He threatened my Brothers and what we stand for," was perhaps the most succinct way of putting it.

"Ah," the king nodded. "Vengeance, then."

"No," Altair replied quietly. "Not vengeance. Justice. That there might be peace."

Richard opened a flap to a tent and gestured for them to enter.

"This is what you fight for? Peace?" The king shook his head in what appeared to be exasperation. "Do you see the contradiction?"

The Assassin dipped his head to hide another smile. It was a contradiction that many a Brother faced and had to reconcile. "Some men cannot be reasoned with," he replied.

"Like that madman, Saladin," Richard agreed.

Altair stood straight and tall. "I think he'd like to see an end to this war as much as you."

"So I've heard," Richard waved it off, "but never seen."

"Even if he doesn't say it, it's what the people want," Altair replied. "Saracen and Crusader alike."

"The people know not what they want," Richard eased down into a chair. "It's why they turn to men like us. The strong."

Altair bowed his head respectfully. "Then it falls to men like you to do what is right."

"Hah! Nonsense." Richard gave a tired smile. "We come into the world kicking and screaming. Violent and unstable. It is what we are. We cannot help ourselves."

"No," Altair said quietly, the lessons he had learned these past two seasons settled calmly within him. "We are what we chose to be." He had chosen to be arrogant and had paid the price for it. He chose to be wise now, and hoped to see peace as a result. Al Mualim, he had chosen to...

"Heh, your kind," the king gave an amused grin. "Always playing with words."

Altair frowned. "I speak the truth. Others merely choose not to see it. There's no trick to be found here."

"We'll know soon enough. But I fear you cannot have what you desire this day." Richard shook his head. "Even now, that heathen Saladin has cut many of my men and I must attend to them. But, perhaps, having seen how vulnerable he is, he will reconsider his actions." The king nodded to himself. "Yes. In time, what you seek may be possible."

The Assassin sought to make the day's events clear. "You are no more secure than him. Do not forget that. The men you left behind to rule in your stead did not intend to serve you for longer than they had to."

"Yes." Richard looked away. "Yes. I am well aware."

"Then I'll take my leave." Altair gave a polite bow of his head. "My master and I have much to discuss. It seems that even he is not without fault."

"He is only human," the king offered. "As are we all." He narrowed his eyes. "You as well."

"... Safety and peace be upon you."

Richard smiled. "It's already dark and you are a mess. Stay the night. You'll have plenty of time to leave in the morning. After that, I hope to never see you again."

Altair gave his own grin. "I hope I won't have a reason to see you again."

* * *

 

... _So Al Mualim was a traitor? He knew about the Temple and the nine because he was_ one _of them? It couldn't be true and yet it made so much sense and how could he kill his own master...? Where were the sta_ rs in the... Desmond shook his head and rubbed his face. No stars, it wasn't past midnight and he wasn't sneaking out of Richard's camp to get a head start on the ride north to Masyaf. He wasn't Altair, he _wasn't_ ; he was just looking at the ceiling of his prison.

God, that was the worst pull out yet. Ejected by Lucy again...?

"I said _get up_ , god damn it!"

God-complex ass-wipe freak. With effort, Desmond pulled himself up to a sitting position on the Animus, spinning around slightly to look up the dais to his Lordship as he paced about his glass table. "Listen!" he shouted, pressing a finger to a communication console.

"Oh, no," Lucy whispered as the room filled with sounds of gunfire. Desmond blinked, a little startled. The room had always been so... quiet, only the sounds of the cooling systems and the Animus and the voices of Lucy and Vidic. Hearing gunfire, it was so... strange. What did it mean?

Vidic was livid. "Seems your Assassin friends found us."

... What?

"... What?"

They... they were coming for him? Really? He was... he was going to get out of here? Excitement mixed with fear enveloped him, and he pulled himself off the Animus to take position next to Lucy. When the assassins came, he could grab her, maybe pretend she was a hostage, and run, get her freedom with his. He had no idea how this was happening, but he sure wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste. He couldn't believe it! Freedom!

Vidic marched forward, down a step on the dais, shaking a furious finger at his prisoner. "How'd you do it, Desmond? How'd you leak your location to them? How'd you even _contact_ them?"

Desmond bristled.

"Hey, look," he growled, emotions firing back and forth in his brain, making him defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever's going on down there? Has got nothing to do with me!" God knew his hacking attempts sure as hell didn't draw attention. How was he supposed to know anything? _Do_ anything trapped as he was in this stupid secure room that didn't have outside internet access or even a freakin' DOS window?

His defensive response only brought about more anger from Vidic. "They're here for _you_!" he roared, taking another step, murder in his eyes. "And _I_ sure as _shit_ didn't invite them!" Vidic turned on his heel and marched back to the comm. "What's the situation down there?" he demanded.

_"Taking heavy fire,"_ someone on the other end said, his voice clinical and professional. The hail of gunfire coming in with his voice backed up the statement.

Vidic swore again. "Can you contain it? Or do I need to evacuate the prisoner?" he demanded, shifting weight from one foot to the next.

_"Only five or six,"_ the voice responded. _"We've got them outnumbered. Couple of wounded but we'll pull through. We'll get it under control."_ Somebody on that disembodied other end cried out and the link went dead.

"God _damn_ you Desmond," Vidic hissed. "You couldn't leave well enough alone."

"I _told_ you I had nothing to do with this!" Desmond shouted, taking an angry step forward. How da _re this man fail to acknowledge the mistakes and accept his approaching de_ ath? God complex freak! How he pissed Desmond off! "How would I even contact them? Telepathy? Come on!"

Silence stretched out, heavy and oppressive. Vidic glared daggers at Desmond but the kidnapped man held his ground. Even through his anger, he was beginning to realize: Vidic was worried. He watched the shifting of the weight; the pacing around the comm. Vidic was actually _scared._ The smug exterior had completely evaporated, the god-complex had disappeared, and he was just a guy, a guy terrified that he was going to get in trouble. The idea slowly quelled the anger, and as time dragged on Desmond allowed himself to smirk, confidence filling him.

It was done once, it could be done again.

And by god, Desmond was going to enjoy making the old fart quail.

Minutes went by. Lucy stood unnaturally still, her face pale. Desmond thought she had the same mix of nervous fear and excitement as he did. He wanted to express to her that she was coming with them, but Vidic's pacing and cursing made that impossible. He tried to catch her eye, communicate with a look, but she stared at nothing, completely frozen as she, they, waited for word.

"Christ Desmond how did you do it?" Vidic demanded, his nerves making him fill the silence. A light blinked on the console, and the grizzled old man's face went from tightly controlled panic to something far smarmier. "Doesn't matter," he answered himself expansively. He turned to Desmond and Lucy. "They'll be dead soon enough. Here: have a listen."

And gunfire enveloped the room again, sporadic, a cacophony of noise, but it sputtered, growing more disparate, before it finally stopped all together.

_"Threat's been neutralized,"_ the voice on the other end said.

With a haughty smirk Vidic turned off the comm. "Looks like the cavalry won't be coming."

But Desmond replied with a smirk of his own. "Dunno, doc. You were freakin' out a minute ago. Little research facility not as secure as you thought it was? Worried they'll be back with more?" Even if this attempt failed, there'd be another one. All he had to do was wait.

"...I don't think so, Desmond, " Lucy said softly, slightly behind him. Desmond turned to look at her, her pale face even paler, her eyes downcast. She didn't look up to him.

Desmond looked on, confused.

"What Lucy is trying to say," Vidic extrapolated, "is that there aren't many Assassins left to come for you." He spun around to face the doc. "We've been very busy this past year," he continued, "hunting down your little enclaves, your desert communes and whatnot."

Desert... the farm? Did they find the _farm?_

Dad, Mom, everyone there, were they...?

Desmond fought to stay calm.

Vidic, oblivious to his debilitating comment, just smiled and said, "I'm afraid you're on your own."

Alone...

All alone...

No hope...

"Rest up Mr. Miles. Tomorrow, we finish this."

Desmond watched, numbly, as Vidic strolled out of the room, and he helpless to follow. With Vidic went any energy left in Desmond's legs, and he sat heavily on one of the armchairs, breath leaving him in a great huff.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," Lucy said in a quiet voice. He looked up, a little startled, and saw that she had sat down next to him.

"... He mentioned the desert," he said, his voice a little broken. "Do you think...?" His mother? His father?

Lucy looked up to the cameras for a brief moment, perhaps weighing her options, before she reached out and put a hand on his knee. "They sent a team there but the place was deserted. I don't know where your parents are, and I can't promise they're still alive, but I think they got away."

Maybe. All he had was a maybe. It was nothing, not really, and there was no energy left in Desmond to try and turn it into something.

But Lucy had risked giving him the information, and for that he was grateful.

"... Thanks," he said, a hand reaching out to cover hers, giving it a squeeze. "Thanks for checking."

It... it was all pointless. Futile, even. He had no other options, no other avenues, no other hopes. It... it was over.

Lucy seemed to sense his thoughts, because she squeezed his hand in turn and offered a warm, soft smile. "It's not as bad as it seems."

Not as bad as... on what _planet_?

"What are you talking about?" Desmond said, leaning forward and pulling his hand away. "They just killed - literally killed - my only chance of getting outta here! And then I find out the Assassins are all but destroyed and, and, _Christ!_ I still don't know what these people are planning! But I do know they plan to _kill_ me when they're done! I am _screwed_ , okay? What do you want me to do?" There was nothing, _nothing_ left! What could she possibly say?

For a long time, she didn't say anything, just looked into his eyes long and hard, before slowly, deliberately, she lifted her left hand up to her chest, all fingers extended. All but one. Her ring finger was bent in, looking like it might have been amputated, looking li _ke a member of the Or_ der.

"Just try and have a little faith," she said softly. Simply.

Desmond stared, his mind threatening to shut down. "You're..."

"Have faith," she repeated, quickly but not unkindly as her eyes flicked to the cameras. Desmond blinked, realizing he had almost given it away. He released a breath he hadn't been aware he had been holding, and he leaned back in the chair, shocked.

Lucy got up. "Rest up Desmond. You're going to need the energy."

It wasn't until he was back in his room that he had enough time to realize the full implications of what Lucy had just given him. _He_ sure as hell hadn't gotten word to the assassin's, but _Lucy_ must have, and so after the guard came in for with his dinner and left he used his access code - that Lucy must have given him - to go back into the main lab and made a beeline for the blonde's terminal. How, _how_ had she managed to get word outside? He opened up her email and dug through her inbox and outbox but found nothing. He opened up the trash folder, too, and that was where he found it, a series of emails between her and an unknown sender. He scrolled down to the bottom and worked his way up.

_NEED INTEL ON DIA EVENT_

_AT LEAST TWENTY DEAD IN ACCIDENT. ASSUME THIS IS SITE OF LAUNCH. IF NOT LAUNCH, THEN CERTAINLY ASSEMBLY. SHOULD TRY AND INFILTRATE._

_WHAT IS PURPOSE OF LAUNCH?_

_LOW EARTH ORBIT TRANSMITTER FOR ARTIFACT. EXTENSION OF CONDITIONED RESPONSE EXPERIMENTS FROM FIVE YEARS AGO. IF SUCCESSFUL THEY CONTROL EVERYTHING._

_WHAT DO YOU MEAN EVERYTHING?_

_OUR MINDS._

_WHAT ABOUT DESMOND?_

_THEY'RE USING HIM TO LOCATE ANOTHER ARTIFACT. I HAVE BEEN DELAYING BUT THEY ARE CLOSE NOW._

_DOES HE KNOW ABOUT US?_

_NO._

_GOOD. KEEP IT THAT WAY FOR NOW._

_CAN YOU SEND RESCUE?_

And, as if that information dump wasn't enough, the last email looked completely different.

_From: fastr cheaper meds_

_Subject: Problems DOWN THERE?_

_WondEr Why It is everyone Laughs at you? i'll Let you guess. let's just say that she's proBably gEtTing it bigger and better from someone else tHat isn't you. how can you hope to compEte? REst asSured that there are sOme gOod ways. click the liNk to see!_

It took Desmond a while to figure it out. Erectile Dysfunction spam wasn't exactly a clear response, until he realized that everything before had been in capital letters, and with decent grammar no less. Why the sudden switch to such shoddy writing? Desmond read over the email a couple of times, and it wasn't until he made the connection of the capital letters that he put it together: _WE WILL BE THERE SOON_.

God. _God_. Lucy had been the one to ask for a rescue. Desmond rubbed his forehead, reminding himself there was nothing he could do. Shit, no wonder she had been so pale during the fight, no wonder she couldn't meet his eyes when the assassins were all killed. How was she still standing after that?

It took a lot of effort, but Desmond finally logged off her computer and stepped back. The satellite launch was going to control everyone's minds with some stupid Piece of Eden that Abstergo was traipsing through Altair's memories for. Just how many had his ancestor found in that locked memory? There wasn't any time left, and so Desmond marched purposefully to Vidic's terminal.

Email was the first program he opened. The first thing he spied was an email from the president, Alan Rikken. Desmond should have expected that after the failed assassin assault, but he didn't and he shook his head.

It appeared that Rikken wasn't the slightest bit pleased, Desmond reading lines like, _"If this kid isn't going to get us what we need, it's time to start looking elsewhere. I've cc'ed David from our Acquisitions department. He may be able to provide you with a couple of additional test subjects should Desmond be retired. In case you need reminding, WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME."_ As if Desmond didn't already know about the ticking clock, the proverbial feather, hanging over his head.

Rikken went on to talk about fluoride, Desmond remembered reading something about that earlier, probably in Vidic's news sound bites, but what got his attention was the fact that Rikken thought there might be a leak in the company. Was he on to Lucy? But as he read further he didn't spy her name, just speculation one whether there even was a leak or not. The last sentence made Desmond gulp: " _I'm about ready to pull the plug on Subject Seventeen. So either get me results or get another person into that Animus."_

"Right," he muttered, "Knowing the end is nigh? Not helping."

That didn't mean he didn't give himself several minutes to stress over it. He really didn't know what more he could do to stall; he'd have to think of something later.

He saw an email from Lucy in Vidic's trash, and he thanked her several times over when he realized he was looking at the access code for the computer in the conference room. Desmond logged off as quickly as he could, determined to learn as much as he could. Abstergo may have been running out of time, but that meant Desmond was, too, and he had to put this all together before they decided to off him. Escape was almost negligible now, what he needed was information.

He used the stolen codes to access the conference room, glared at the door that had been so close to freedom before, and sat down at the laptop on the conference desk, logging on. Every file and directory was encrypted. Nothing could be accessed except for the email program - a running theme for Desmond, and in it there was only one email.

_"The others and I have finished reviewing the Animus recordings from Subjects 12-16. While the Piece of Eden remains our priority, we must all continue working to locate and understand the remaining artifacts. I am sure you can understand our reasoning behind this. Although the satellite is intended to accomplish a fair portion of the work for us, we will certainly need to deal with those who are either immune to - or protected from - its effects._

_"Please take a moment to look over our findings and get back to me with any feedback you may have. I will summarize below:_

_"1. Piece of Eden (no. 3) - We applaud your continued efforts to locate an alternate artifact following the loss of no. 2 in the DIA Satellite Accident. We understand Subject Seventeen is having trouble interfacing with the Animus, leading to delays. As a result, we estimate another 24 hours before your next critical update. In the meantime, we'll prepare an extraction team and set them on standby. We're relying on you to obtain the addition information we require. He knows where the other objects are - even if he doesn't realize it. You MUST unlock that final memory or all of this will have been for nothing._

_"2. Philadelphia Project - Data from Animus Subject Twelve indicates that the ship briefly manifested in a future state for approximately 18 minutes. It is unclear whether the timeline is consistent or parallel to our own. Although we have recovered enough data to reconstruct and repair the original artifact and use it in an experiment, Administration has refused to move forward on the project, citing paradox concerns. Corporate policy remains in place: any objects found to interfere with or manipulate time must be contained. Artifact will be moved to secure storage._

_"3. Tunguska Incident - Now believed to be direct result of assault by Assassins. Research station destroyed as was the artifact. Alternate wave generation devices had been located in storage, but we have insufficient data at the moment to initiate research. The risk of accident is too high. Lineage Discovery and Acquisition Division should attempt to locate descendants of any attack survivors (either Assassin or Brotherhood) in order to continue research. Resurrecting this particular type of technology will aide us greatly with any holdouts following the Satellite's activation. We're putting together a team to push research in this area._

_"4. Grail - We are removing the Grail from our list of objectives. There is insufficient evidence to confirm its existence. Current examination of Subject Seventeen indicates that aside from the Piece of Eden, all other artifacts related to the Christ-figure are literary devices (or derived from the Piece of Eden) and not actual objects. Even if the object is real, its use to us at this stage is negligible. Our resources are better used elsewhere._

_"5. Mitchell-Hedges Communicators - Analysis of the objects is complete. The good news is that they work. As a result, we now have a safe and secure communication channel for use after the launch. However, they are severely limited in number, and so we will be providing them only to our most essential facilities. You will obviously retain possession of the one you have._

_"Warren, I cannot stress enough how important it is that you wrap things up with Subject Seventeen as soon as possible. We're obviously relieved that you seem to be closing in on the target memory, but you need to step it up. Everything we're working towards depends on your retrieving those locations. Without them, we've got nothing."_

Desmond forcibly pushed the laptop away in order to have enough room to press his forehead into the cool glass of the table. Holy... There weren't words to describe how he felt after reading that email. Bad enough Lucy's frantic email to the Assassins talked about the satellite _controlling their minds_ ; bad enough there were other little silver balls out there that Abstergo, Templars, whoever were looking for; no, no, now there was talk of little silver balls that _fucked with time_ ; right next to a comment that the company had been seriously looking for the Holy fuckin' _Grail_ and comments on there being communicators that would cancel out the mind control.

Jesus Christ.

Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

He banged his head against the table slightly, refusing to shut down, trying, struggling, to assimilate all the information. Lucy was an assassin, Abstergo were Templars, the Third Crusade was happening all over again - it had never _stopped_ , and now the Templars had enough technology to do what they wanted to do from the start: world order through world mind control with the privileged few to lord it over the mindless rest. The fight had been going on for almost a _thousand years_. ... What was Tunguska? What did fluoride have to do with anything other than toothpaste?

God, there was no time left. Panic was threatening to overtake Desmond - he was one measly little memory away from giving the bastards what they wanted and then he was dead and buried and forgotten.

Christ!

He slammed a fist into the table and took a deep, shaky breath. His eyes burned.

He didn't know how long he sat there, curled up in the chair and pressing his face to the glass table, struggling to come to terms with it all.

_"Just try and have a little faith."_

Lucy... she was his only hope now. He had to trust her.

He had to.

There was nothing left.

Eventually, he got up on unsteady legs and made his way out of the conference room. It was dark outside; the moon could be seen faintly beyond the roofline of the complex.

He fell onto the bed of his prison, uncertain whether he wanted to sleep or not.

Eventually, it came.

* * *

_it's all gone there's nothing left I'm completely drained I've done all I can and now it's his turn it's your turn the next subject the last subject subject seventeen I've given you all the tools now break the chains Desmond break the chains I'll see you again soon after I die_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh, Desmond, try not to have a panic attack.
> 
> Haaaaa, what to say about this chapter. The email in the Abstergo conference room is copied verbatim from the game... that's not copyright infringement is it? We've disavowed any claim on the game, this is written purely for our own entertainment... and we're poor at any rate, there's nothing to take from us...
> 
> Anyway, first things first: the Battle of Arsuf. Fighting in marshes (the idiocy!), tight Crusader formation, hit-and-run Saracen formation, and records indicate that Salah ad-Din lost thousands of men while Richard only a paltry 700. We both shook our heads and said "no way in heck," and so we left the numbers more ambiguous. You CAN'T have arrows raining down from on high for an entire day and NOT loose thousands of men. At any rate, we thought it more entertaining to have Altair run through the actual battle, instead of just skirting the edges of it like he does in the game, and god knows there weren't ramparts and steak fences for him to climb in the battle. That takes preparation to set up that Richard didn't have. It was a WALKING battle. Bad AC, bad.
> 
> Saved citizens pop up again, does anyone remember the would-be lover in Acre with flowers? There was no way Altair could fight through the dozens of men and then fight de Sable and win, so we thought it more than fair for him to have a rest before that particular confrontation. He still, technically, should be drop-dead exhausted after fighting ten Templars, but at least now we can claim artistic license. We hope, as always, that Altair's mindset makes sense as he has his conversation with Richard. It's a little hard to believe he's so coherent after finding out the Master, the father of the Order, that everyone and their brother looks up to and respects, is a traitor to every principal and ideal he ever taught, but "that's how the game went," and so we hope the justification makes sense.
> 
> And Desmond... If you picked up on it the Bleeding Effect is starting to happen outside the Animus as well as inside; Altair's headspace is superseding some of his thoughts, whether Desmond realizes it or it's worthy of note that he doesn't understand some (a lot) of the things that are being referenced in the Abstergo emails. He doesn't know everything, and he doesn't have a handy FAQ to explain every little nuance of what's been dumped on him. But artifacts that screw around with time? Yeah, that would freak out anyone.
> 
> And Lucy, of course, once more shines. Poor girl, she tries so hard... and only now does Desmond fully realize the kind of situation she's in. Sort of. And Sixteen is also making his final pleas. Sort of.
> 
> As for the reviewers for last chapter, more than a few of you wanted "more" with the Altair/Malik sequence. Perhaps the best way to comment on that is to explain that it's a fine dance novelizing a game. The whole point - especially with a game like AC that has little in the way of character-defining cutscenes (Al Mualim doesn't count because that's philosophy not character) is to add "more." The price comes with the scenes that are actually in the game. There's some room for leeway but not a lot, and Mirror and I were constantly going back and forth on how much to add and how much not to. This was particularly true with the Malik sequences. Having said that, this particular scene simply can't have much in the way of expansion - I mean, Masyaf is about to be attack by TWO FREAKIN' ARMIES, there's a lot of impending doom and high anxiety. Everyone's first priority is the safety of home. Literally, the only form of "more" that scene could have was exactly what happened: Altair falls unconscious, and the explanation of the conspiracy gets embellished a little.
> 
> But don't worry. That scene with Malik in Masyaf? It's still coming. :P
> 
> Two chapters left. Next week: Death of a Master.


	25. Death of a Master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just take a minute and think about how many people are in Masyaf that you know the names to. Keep that in mind. :P

"Get up."

Desmond rolled over.

"Get up!"

He buried his head further into the pillow, attempting to will himself back to sleep.

" _Get up, Mr. Miles_!"

Desmond groaned, raising his head and looking up at the looming form of Vidic, looking down at him with a smug smile. "Even earlier than usual, Doc," he mumbled. With a yawn, he stretched and sat up, feeling a distinct lack of rest still attempting to pull him down again.

Vidic just smiled like there was some private joke. "I'd like to get this over with as _quickly_ as possible."

The grizzled man swept out of the room, lab coat swirling, so Desmond grumbled to himself and got up to shower and get ready for the day. "If you say so," he muttered.

Today was his seventh day as a captive. Surely, they believed in a day of rest like the rest of humanity, didn't they?

Coming out it was unsurprising to see a large breakfast set out in front of him. There wasn't any talk of the Assassins from the previous day, and Lucy still looked pale from her place at the Animus. Vidic just looked out the window, sipping his coffee and barking at Desmond to hurry up.

Well, he didn't particularly care to hurry up to his death. Desmond dawdled and stalled as long as he could, savoring his juice, nibbling down his muffins and bagels and toast. But even doing such small things couldn't prevent the inevitable. This would be his last day alive if there wasn't a miracle.

"Don't look so glum, Mr. Miles," Vidic said, coming over and sitting in the other armchair. The doctor sipped his coffee. "Today is a historic day. One that will be remembered for years to come." The old fart chuckled. "Remembered by some of us, anyway."

Desmond didn't need to be reminded of his imminent demise.

Vidic grinned smugly, and offered a cup of coffee.

It wasn't to say Desmond wasn't tempted. Coffee was... _coffee_... But he wouldn't trust anything that War _den_ offered. If it was Lucy, that would be a different story. Vi _dick_ wasn't someone he would trust _any_ thing from.

"Why even bother being nice," he asked. "You're going to kill me so why even bother with something so petty?"

"Because, Mr. Miles," Vidic sat back, still smiling. "I'm not heartless."

Bullshit, but Desmond didn't say anything. Instead he finished his breakfast as slowly as he could and looked at the Animus.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down and looked at Lucy. She didn't look at him but he thought he had her attention regardless. He looked to the empty conference room, glanced around the room, and finally looked down to his hands.

There was nothing left to do.

No options available.

All he could do... was finish this memory...

With as much calm as he could muster, he lay back down.

Desmond didn't spawn in the city or at the keep, he spawned at the base of the mountain whe _re the guards at the watchtower were horrified at the state of the master assa_ ssin and somehow, he had managed to be on that black stall _ion they had heard nothing from the mas_ ter. Desmond struggled to stay himself, he didn't want to synchronize with A _ltair stayed only long enough to water his horse and get a new set of whites the watchmen insisted o_ n but he couldn't st _op them from redressing his broken fingers and cut on his arm and demanding to know wh_ at was going on. Desmond dismounted in ho _pes of sneaking in unnoticed he could only tell the guards to be wary of a possible attack from the Crusaders and Saracens though he doubted either would strike, he could not bring himself to sha_ re the secrets with the others.

Breathing hard, Desmond tugged his horse up the valley, distance away from the tower helping some, but he knew it was futile. He wanted to know what was going on just as much as Al _tair and he would learn the truth even if it killed him in the proc_ ess. Desmond planted one foot in front of the other, holding the reins of the horse like a lifeline.

"I'm me," he muttered under his breath. "I'm me, I'm me, I'm Desmond Miles."

He passed under the stone arches, ancient markers of Roman occupation and slowly made his way up the mountain, looking out over the massive lake below him that held the village's precious water. The _re were no travelers going up or down the road and that worried him, there were always merchants or brothers co_ ming and going.

Desmond shook his head, fighting to retain his own mind when he got to the stables. But it was n _ot meant to be and Altair bothered only to tie his horse to a post._

* * *

The village was quiet. Much too quiet.

No sounds of chickens, no sounds of dogs, no sounds of people. No chinking of pots or calls of sales, no well gossip, no children's giggles, no pounding of feet. Nothing. Just... silence.

The day was hazy, thick clouds roiling through the sky, only partly blocking the light of the sun, leaving an ethereal globe in the sky. Shadows were dull and plain, and only added to the uneasy sense of the town.

There wasn't a word for the emotion that clutched and scraped at Altair's chest. Not fear, not dread, not horror, not shock. He walked into the main square on tepid feet. Under the tree was a villager, he did not know the name, but everywhere else he looked was empty.

"What happened here?" he asked, his voice soft because of the silence. "Where is everyone?"

"Gone to see the Master," the villager said, his voice not sounding quite normal.

"Was it the Templars?" Had there been an attack, and everyone hiding in the keep as before? He saw no signs of battle. "Did they attack again?"

"They walk the path."

"... What path?" Altair asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Towards the light," the villager said, his voice reverent, almost chanting.

"Speak sense," the master assassin said, trying to understand what was happening.

"There is only what the Master shows us. This is the truth."

Altair shook his head. "You've lost your mind," he said, but even as he did a trickle of thought ran through his head; a thought he did not want to believe, did not want to think his Master _capable_ of. Surely he wouldn't...

"You too will walk the path," the villager said, "Or you will perish. So the Master commands."

The thought was confirmed. "It was Al Mualim, wasn't it," Altair said, grimacing at the thought. "What's he done to you?"

"Praise be to the Master for he has led us to the light!"

Frustrated, Altair moved past the man, past the shaded well. The village was virtually empty, but not completely. He made his way to the market, where Zamil and his family had taken residence. He knocked on the door, pounded really, but none answered. The villager from the base had followed him, joined now by two others. He turned and left, making his way to the steep road that lead to the upper levels of the city. Three more he passed, who turned and began to follow and some of them spoke.

"The will of the Master must be obeyed."

"Only speak, Master, and show us the path."

"Al Mualim! Guide us! Command us!"

Under the stage, Altair turned and stared. More people, walking slowly, almost stiffly, gathered, praising Al Mualim and begging his guidance.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he demanded. "Your minds are your own, why do you beg for guidance when you can make your own decisions?"

"We cannot stray from the path," a young man said, and Altair blinked as he recognized the basket weaver's son, Ghassan. His little sister stood next to him, utterly and unnaturally still. "Only he can take us to the light."

Altair marched forward and knelt in front of the little girl, "Nazhat," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It will be alright."

"Obey Master," the innocent girl said, her normally bright face blank, distant.

This was...

This was...

This was so much _worse_ than the assault of Masyaf. Altair stumbled to his feet, staring at the growing crowd of villagers, horrified. He shook his head in denial, turning hard on his feet and continuing his march up the path. Still others joined him, perhaps two dozen now, following and praising the Master.

Al Mualim... he had broken _everything_ , this was worse than _rape_. He had taken, stolen, the very souls of the villagers. Altair could not stop the shudder that ran through his body. That man was no longer his master. He was a traitor to the very Order he had so painstakingly taught, led, inspired! How could he do it?

He was running now, running away from the villagers and up the path to the base of the keep.

Four journeyman guards marched up in perfect formation. Altair stopped and waited, but they only stared at him, blank of eye and blank of mind. Wary, he walked past them and to another set of four that guarded the path to the keep. The journeyman's heads turned as one to follow Altair, unnaturally in unison. Altair shuddered again but pushed through it.

"I wish to speak to Al Mualim," he said, uncertain what the response would be.

Then he watched in horror as one of them, Zamil, stepped forward. "Death to the infidel!" he shouted, and suddenly eight brothers were drawing their swords and attacking Altair.

He was caught so off guard that the first strike, from Zamil, knocked him completely backward, sending him tumbling to the four journeymen that had been behind him as the four guards, full assassins, circled around. "Stop!" he cried, clumsily drawing his sword. "I do not wish to harm you!"

A journeyman grabbed at his robes and pulled, tossing Altair into a wooden bench and almost over the cliff to the lake below. Rolling aside, the master assassin managed to get himself to his feet and took a defensive stance. A different journeyman lunged forward, his form slightly off, and Altair deflected the blow, digging a kick into the man's midsection. A guard followed up with a strong blow, followed by Zamil as he swept in to Altair's unprotected side, leaving the master assassin to dodge the blow only by inches. Masyaf soldiers were like Templars, they were trained since childhood in how to handle a blade, their conditioning was excellent; moreover, their moves were exactly as Altair's, they knew the patterns and the forms and the blocks necessary - Rauf had pounded it into them over and over and over again. Each attack was carried out swiftly and expertly - even the journeymen who did not have the training or experience that Altair did.

He defended almost exclusively, able to do little else because of the cohesion of their moves, and Altair did not want to attack regardless; these were _brothers_ , no matter what had happened to their minds, and he could not do them harm - even if he was defending himself.

His body was another story, however, as a journeyman struck at Altair muscle memory made him twist the blade aside before impaling itself into the guard. Altair cried out, shocked that he had murdered a brother, and was unprepared for the blow from behind that followed, knocking him forward.

"Stop! Stop it!" he shouted, rolling and running. "I do not wish to fight!"

"You counter the will of the Master!" Zamil shouted, catching up to Altair quickly. "You diverge from the path!"

Altair blocked the blow and shoved his friend aside. "He has taken possession of you mind! Fight back, Zamil, or you and the others will be-"

A kick caught his midsection unawares, and air flooded out of his lungs. Cursing, he struggled to block a strike from another journeyman and get a breath at the same time. When he did, he turned and ran again - perhaps he could tire them out instead of fighting him.

Zamil caught up to him quickly, however, having received the same training in Jerusalem as he had, and knocked him to the ground. A hidden blade extended, and Altair knew he was about to die, and so he extracted his own blade and, faster than his friend, pierced it into his opponent's Adam's apple.

Time froze for one horrifying moment, and all Altair could see was Zamil's wife, Aaqilah, and their newborn daughter, and Zamil fighting Abbas in his name, and the stories and the humor and the affable smile...

"Zamil! _Zamil!_ " he shouted, staring at his left arm like it was a traitor to his body.

A journeyman guard shoved Zamil's body brutally aside to gain better access to Altair, and for a moment the master assassin saw nothing but rage as he lifted his sword arm.

He hammered at the journeyman's defense before battering the flat of his blade against the man's skull, launching himself at the next journeyman - realizing only distantly it was the bitter Motaz - and assaulted him with everything he had, overpowering the sarcastic and doubting journeyman until he finally was able to land a blow to the man's legs, breaking them both before he turned to another guard. That assassin had his own offense ready but Altair spun the blade away and broke the guard's sword arm in three places before shoving him aside and grabbing at the mail of another and shoving him aside to access another assassin, swinging so hard he knocked his opponent's sword away and once more used the flat of his blade, this time shattering a collarbone before the last journeyman guard tried to duck in under Altair's guard. He answered with a vicious kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the head and a brutal strike with his sword, the blade sinking into the hip and breaking it. Altair advanced on the two assassins, grabbing one and moving to shove him, but the other ran the assassin through, his sword still plunging forward to get to Altair had he not let go at the last moment. The weight of the body pulled the assassin's sword down, and Altair gave a vicious kick to the head, knocking him out before at last Altair could think clearly.

Three lay dead at his feet, two by his hand and one by a fellow brother in an attempt to get to him. The others would be crippled, but were alive.

"Safety and peace, brothers," he whispered, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He looked to the body of his friend. "Zamil... I-"

"As the Master commands!"

"For the light!"

"Kill the traitor!"

"For the Master!"

"He must not walk the path, destroy him!"

All at once, assassins leapt from the upper ramparts landing with skill and grace, came out from somewhere in the village, appeared from almost nowhere, and surrounded the master assassin.

More faces he recognized: Farasat, Rauf, even young Stephen, a dozen brothers attacking Altair at once. He backed up slowly.

"This is insanity!" he shouted, breathing hard. "Can you not resist whatever he has done to you?"

The response was Stephen, young, inexperienced Stephen, to draw a sword and advance with a skill that was not his own. Altair blocked the strike with surprising difficulty, but discovered too late the blow was actually a feint as a small knife broke through the layers of leather that comprised of his belts and sank into his abdomen. The pain momentarily blinded Altair, and his body reacted with a brutal blow in retaliation to get himself away. He realized too late that the strike had not been with the flat of his sword, and Stephen slumped to the ground, dead.

Something struck the back of his head and Altair pitched forward, his broken fingers crushed under his own weight and causing pain to flare up his arm. His breath exited in a pained gasp, a kick landed in his wounded side, and a foot stomped onto his shoulder. Altair struggled to get up, but the blows kept coming.

Was this how it was going to end? Like... like this?

But as soon as he accepted the thought he heard screams, sensed the assassins around him disperse, one fell to the ground next to him, and in confusion he pulled himself up to his knees.

"Altair!"

He looked up, shocked, to see Malik waving to him from one of the upper ledges. He and four others: Halim, Seosamh, Saadah, and Ghunayn. All were throwing knives into the dispersing assassins.

"Up here!" he called.

Shocked, almost numb, Altair hastily pulled himself to his feet. His fingers throbbed, but he sheathed his sword and examined the stab wound Stephen had given him. The knife must not have been standard issue because the penetration was not deep; the leather had protected him just enough, had the knife been any longer and he would have needed serious help. Grunting, he ripped one of his coattails and rolled it into a tight ball, tucking it inside his belts to act as a staunch for the blood. Halim appeared on the path and saw this, his face paling before he gestured quickly for the master assassin to follow.

Altair limped his way after the journeyman, the kicks and blows having taken their toll, to say nothing of the emotional weight of having Zamil's and now Stephen's blood on his hands. The world had turned to madness!

The two turned from the main path, Halim silently beckoning Altair to follow up a smaller trail to one of Masyaf's many cliffs. Malik was there, as was easily two-dozen others; he must have brought the entire Bureau with him.

"Speak with the _dai_ , Master," Halim said in near silent tones, "We will watch for others." Gone was the awe and fawning, this was a Halim who was determined to do his job.

Altair turned to the one armed _dai_ , and even through his pain he could only smile.

"You picked a fine time to arrive," he said, still holding his abdomen where he had been stabbed.

"So it seems." With a flick of Malik's eyes Omar stepped forward and began to examine Altair with an apprentice. Wait, Omar? Hadn't Altair brought him to...?

"Is Jabal here?" he asked.

"A little bird told me you'd be here," the wizened old _rafiq_ said with a grin, stepping forward. "Though it seems Ibtisam did not get Malik's letter."

Both Bureaus... Altair could not believe it. He grimaced as someone poked at one of his freshly forming bruises, and both men looked on in concern. Altair pushed it aside; needing to pass one what Robert had told him.

"Guard yourselves well," he said, "Al Mualim has betrayed us."

"Yes," Malik said with a solemn face. "Betrayed his Templar allies as well."

Altair blinked. "How do you know?"

"After we spoke I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon's Temple. Robert had kept a journal, filled its pages with revelations. What I read there broke my heart," he said, lowering his head in sadness before it lifted, "but it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altair, all along our Master has used us. We were not meant to save the Holy Land but deliver it to him. He must be stopped!"

"He had copies made and sent to all the _rafiq_ ," Jabal said. "From Alamut to Cairo. As soon as I read it I gathered my men and came here, we met on the road. I left a man with the guards at the base of the mountain, if others arrive, they will be further appraised."

Altair looked to the leader of the Acre Bureau. " _Rafiq_ ," he said slowly, "Stephen... he..."

"We saw, Altair," Jabal said, raising a hand to forestall further words. "You did everything you could. Were that we were quicker in placing ourselves, we could have spared you - and him, the pain." A hand rubbed at his iron-grey beard.

"Our first priority is Al Mualim," Malik said after giving the two a moment to grieve.

"Be careful, Malik," Altair said, the fight still fresh in his mind. "What he's done to the others he'll do to us given the chance. All of you must stay far from him."

The _dai_ gave the master assassin a long, steady look. "What would you propose?" he asked wearily, his tone defensive. "My blade arm is still strong and my men remain my own."

"Of course," Altair said quickly, offended that Malik would even think he was suggesting the _dai_ unfit for the fight. He winced as Omar poked particularly hard at his abdomen. "But we cannot let him have more men under his influence."

"It would be a mistake not to use us!"

"Be still, young Malik, that is not what he is suggesting," Jabal interceded. "I see his point, I have but few men under my command and I'd rather not lose them to these mindless masses."

"Then what should we do?" Malik demanded. The men around watched the three tensely, waiting.

"... Distract these thralls, then," Altair said softly, thinking.

"Pardon?" the aged Jabal asked.

"Assault the fortress from behind," Altair explained. "If you can draw their attention away from me, I might reach Al Mualim. Stealth would serve better in this case, we none of us have the numbers to overpower him; them. Better to mislead. I have the best chance of the three of us reaching him."

Jabal nodded. "Agreed."

Malik's reply was longer in coming. "I will do as you ask, _dai_."

The title he gave Altair was a testament to the faith he had in the master assassin, and he smiled, softly, briefly, in thanks. For the next twenty minutes they planned their assault, outlining rough sketches and figuring out who would best be placed where. Jabal would sneak in under the keep, Malik from the back. With focus on those two locations, Altair could go through the front and have little challenge. If not, the front had the best face for climbing, and he could find the old man that way.

Word passed quickly through the men, and the three stood once they were settled with their roles.

"The men we face," Altair said, "their minds are not their own. If you can avoid killing them..."

Both men nodded, as did several of the journeymen and apprentices.

"Yes," Malik said, conviction in his voice. "Though _he_ has betrayed the tenants of the Creed, that does not mean we must as well. I'll do what I can."

"We both will," Jabal agreed.

"It's all I ask."

For a moment, the three stood, the weight of what they were about to do pressing upon them. As one, they nodded, and Jabal quickly departed. Malik turned to go, but Altair grabbed his arm. The clouds broke briefly for a moment and the sun shone upon them.

"Malik," he said quickly, softly. "If I fail, if this does not work, then if falls to you. Tell the others, tell any who would listen, of what that cursed artifact does; spread the word, and go to Alamut to marshal the forces."

No longer were the two of them childhood rivals, no longer were they fast friends, no longer were they bitterly broken men. Now, they were brothers, twined together through betrayal and about to be forged in fire. There was no one else Altair could ask this of, not even Jabal, and Malik understood without words the weight of the favor. The _dai_ said nothing, his eyes unusually bright, before he nodded resolutely. The past at last washed away, and neither would doubt the intentions of the other ever again.

"... Safety and peace, my friend."

"Your presence here will deliver us both."

The two clasped hands and embraced, quickly, before Malik motioned for Halim and his men took off.

Altair was alone.

But not in his heart. In his heart, the entire Order stood with him, and he closed his eyes, reconciling what he was about to do.

He ascended the mountain.

He waited an hour, enough time for Malik and Jabal to get into position and draw attention towards them. However, as soon as he entered the gate to the keep, the heavy iron flung down, trapping him inside. So much for being unnoticed. He took a deep breath and gazed out to the empty training ring. He walked around it, up the slope to find a veritable sea of bodies, the majority of the villagers, standing around the main doors. They stared vacantly ahead, looking at nothing, thinking of nothing. None responded to his presence.

"There are so many innocents," he muttered to himself.

Slowly, gently, he worked his way through the crowd, their empty eyes following his every move, sending shivers down his spine. Once he was through the door to the keep, he closed it, hoping it would be enough. He opened his ears, listening for signs of life in the library. He walked up the stairs and perused the shelves, but he did not find the old man. He walked out into the garden, knowing Al Mualim enjoyed its beauties.

His entire body prickled with danger as clouds covered the sun again, and he knew he was in the right place. He edged forward carefully, assessing his body, trying to decide how best to approach his former master, wary of every shadow, every floating petal, every whisper of the wind. Muscles tightened, hearing sharpened, he licked his lips in anticipation.

And then he was frozen.

Gasping, Altair felt his body _twist against his will_ , spinning around and yanking his arms out and away from his weapons. "What's happening?" His body lifted until his toes only tickled the mosaic square below him, and he felt something pressing against his mind, _underneath his skull_ , and he shook his head left and right - the few centimeters he could - to force the sensations away.

Terror flooded his brain and for a brief moment he panicked, but years of training quickly overrode the reaction, and somewhere deep in his mind he felt this was familiar. He had experienced this before, and once he realized that, he remembered his vision of death, and the fear quickly disappeared, this time returned with anger. Was the master possessed even then? He growled, and his head jerked up forcefully, making him stare at the balcony overlooking the gardens, the one above the library.

Al Mualim was there, staring down on him.

"So, the student returns," he said in a grandiose fashion.

"... I've never been one to run," Altair gasped, struggling against the invisible threads that held him.

The old man snorted, looking down on him. "Hn. Never been one to listen, either."

"I still live because of it!"

The two stared at each other. Al Mualim contemplating, pacing back and forth along the balcony. That damned treasure had caused this. No, this began before the treasure was even unearthed. _Al Mualim_ had caused this, with his unholy alliance with the Templars and selling out his own students to be slaughtered. Did Harash know of this? Had he worked under the old man's directive? Anger surged through the master assassin as he glared up at Al Mualim.

"What will I do with you?" he called down.

"Let me go," Altair whispered, bloodlust in his mouth.

"Oh, Altair," his former master said, "I hear the hatred in your voice, feel its heat. Let you go? That would be unwise."

The assassin tried a different track. "Why are you doing this?"

"I found proof."

"Proof of what?"

The Piece of Eden was in Al Mualim's hand, it's patterned grooves now golden. It glowed brightly, shining and swirling with unseen energy. "That nothing is true," he said, pride and deliverance in his voice. "And everything is permitted!"

Perversion! Desecration! Al Mualim had become what Altair had once been, thinking the Creed a bid for freedom! Something burst in Altair's chest and he struggled anew, hate burning through him.

Al Mualim saw this and lifted a hand. "Come," he said theatrically, "destroy the betrayer; send him from this world!"

The invisible cage around Altair disappeared, and he stumbled back to the ground. Now free to look around he saw - this was impossi _ble holy shit! Th_ e nine! The nine he had killed encircled him; Tamir, Garnier, Talal, Abu'l Nuquod, William, Majd Addin, Jubair, Sibrand, Robert, all of them with drawn swords and bloodlust in their eyes.

"This is a lie!" he shouted. "You are all dead. I killed you myself! I dipped feathers in your blood!"

" _Oui_ ," Robert said, his eyes cold. "But you, too, died once, yes? Killed by your very Master. Is it so hard to believe that if he raised you from the dead, he raised us as well?"

Altair went cold.

As one they advanced, and Altair only had enough time to draw his sword and counter the first blow, from the fat Abu'l Nuquod. He blocked the next strike from William, followed by another from Tamir, the merchant pressing his blade against Altair's. "I've taken your lives once," the master assassin growled. "I will do so again."

"Such pride," the deathdealer said, "It will destroy you, child."

Those had been the black merchant's last words, and repeating them again froze Altair momentarily for someone - Talal, perhaps, to land a brutal kick to Altair's abdomen, inches from the wound he had received earlier. He stumbled back, avoiding more swings and strikes, and took a throwing knife, sending it flying. It imbedded itself into the twisted doctor, Garnier, old and withered. He looked at the weapon protruding from his stomach, and haunted eyes lifted to meet Altair's. "... What will become of my children?" he asked in a small voice, hurting, before he slumped to the ground.

Altair had no time to question, to ponder what was happening around him. He could only focus on staying alive, ducking under Robert's powerful swing and impaling Tamir before he could say something else, dodging a precision strike from Majd Addin and then circling around Talal and Jubair.

Majd Addin snuck up behind the master assassin, the eagle inside him shrieking in warning and making the man duck at the last possible moment. He retracted his hidden blade and all but threw it into the regent's foot, pinning him to the ground long enough to make a vicious swing into the man's side. Majd Addin gasped, surprised, before turning hard eyes on the assassin. "Dissident voices cut deep as steel," he said, gesturing to his mortal wound before pointing to Altair. "They disrupt order!"

"The world is not meant for order!" Altair hissed, yanking his sword out as well as his hidden blade. "The world is an illusion that we must transcend!"

"Ah, but I see it in your eyes," Abu'l said, lunging forward to grab Altair's robes and beginning to pull. "You _doubt_."

Altair's response to that was to grab the offensive wrist and twist, turning the Merchant King around and impaling him with his sword. The fat man fell away, crumpling to the ground. Something struck him in the back, his short sword preventing serious damage, but he tumbled forward, stumbling and rolling away from the dead men who were no doubt giving chase. He came up at a run, leaping off the mosaic tiles and down to a lower level of the garden, darting further downhill before spinning around and grabbing a throwing knife. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to focus on the moment.

Jubair appeared first, and his aim was true. The scholar tumbled to the ground, rolling. "It is an illness, for which there is but one cure."

"In this we agree," Altair muttered, taking another knife and throwing it to the next target, Talal. The nimble archer proved fast, however, for it only grazed his arm, landing harmlessly in the grass as the slaver gave a two-handed swing at the master assassin. Altair dodged but not completely, the angle of his arm wrong for the defensive tactic and he was pressed to twist to compensate, leaving Talal's sword to slam into his shoulder. It was the flat of the blade, but the pain radiated all through Altair's body and he was quick to back up further. He hissed, wincing and fighting the wince, knowing he had no time to worry about the pain. He put it out of his mind.

Talal laughed, watching the assassin. "Yes, wall off your mind; they say it's what your kind do best. Do you not see the irony in all this?"

Growling against the words, Altair swung his sword in spite of the pain, surprising Talal, and gutting the man.

The others were upon him now, William and Sibrand and Robert. The German port master moved first, engaging in close combat while William circled around in back. Altair managed to kick the Teutonic Knight away in time to counter Richard's regent, spinning and twisting the sword away to stab the man deep in the gut. William's reaction was to laugh. "We'll see how sweet they are, the fruits of your labors. You, who speak of good intentions."

The final words being repeated at him were almost as bad as the blows, and Altair swung his sword to relieve it of the Knight's weight, sending it into Robert and squaring off once more with the German knight. Sibrand tried to get in close again, but Altair would have none of it, lulling the blond into a pattern as he worked his hand and broken fingers to wrap around another throwing knife and tossing it into the man's neck. Sibrand smiled.

"I followed my orders, believing in my cause..."

Only Robert remained. The two circled each other warily. Altair's shoulder throbbed, his stab wound was bleeding again, his fingers were still a hindrance, but he would die fighting.

"Why are you here?" Altair demanded. "You said yourself that Al Mualim betrayed you, so why would you offer your sword arm to him?"

"Have you not figured it out?" de Sable asked. "But then, you always needed things explained to you."

"Your riddles are tiresome!" Altair launched into an assault, swinging his sword mercilessly - but even in his anger he was cautious. The last two seasons had taught him much, and though his brain pulsed with bloodlust he was determined not to lose himself in it as he had before - as he had with Robert in Solomon's Temple. Robert gave ground to Altair's quick and brutal strikes, but Altair used it to try and assess what was going on. He looked to the bodies littering his feet, trying to see, and was shocked to realize the bodies were not those of the nine he had killed.

They were bodies of the Brotherhood.

... What?

Robert was able to twist Altair's sword away in his shock, but muscle memory gave the master assassin just enough leeway to dodge the follow up strike, focusing on the grandmaster. De Sable gave a great cry, and even confused, Altair could see the charge, it was telegraphed in the man's moves, it was too obvious for the Templar who had given Altair such a difficult battle. His moves were not his - Altair had been so focused on what he saw that he did not _watch_. These strikes were not Templar but Assassin in origin. Templars did not fight in cohesive units, Assassins did. Robert was superior in skill to the phantom charging him, and Altair impaled the knight easily, watched at the body changed to that of a brother - an apprentice no less - before a burst of gold made the body disappear.

Startled, Altair spun around, and the other bodies also disappeared in flashes of golden light.

How? How was any of this possible? Sorcery? Magic? The Hand of God - did He really exist?

He realized once more the pressure in his mind. He put a hand to his head, breathing hard, as he tried to figure out where it was coming from. He felt no cuts, had experienced no blows to his head, and yet it felt as if he were hearing whispers, inside and behind his ears, inside his very own thoughts. Was this the treasure?

Invisible bonds clasped his hands, hoisting them painfully over his head and lifting him up into the air, up the levels of the garden and back to the mosaic tiles of the fountain. He hung almost a foot in the air, his legs pumping uselessly against whatever was holding him. His injured shoulder _throbbed_ , but at the same time he could feel the stretching of muscles, the angle was helping to loosen up the pain there. Altair swung a little more, trying to enhance the stretch as he gazed up to the balcony.

Al Mualim was not there, rather at the entrance of the garden. A sword was in his hand, the Apple of Discord in the other, its golden glow reflecting off of everything, the windows, the tiles, the water, the old man's milky eye. He stood there, contemplating.

Growling, struggling, Altair did not want to wait for whatever his "master" would next come up with.

"Face me!" he growled, still swinging his legs. "Or are you _afraid_?"

The cool anger of his beloved teacher never appeared, rather the hot rage of this man possessed by the apple did. His white beard twisted into something ugly, his eyes bulging in indignation.

"I have stood before a thousand men!" he roared. "All of them superior to you! And all of them dead! By _my_ hand! I am _not_ afraid!"

The master of the assassins stepped down into the garden, walking around to face Altair properly, fury radiating off of him in waves. Altair took a deep breath, closing his eyes and begging help from the eagle in his mind.

"Prove it," he hissed.

"What could I possibly fear?" Al Mualim scoffed, "Look at the _power_ I command."

And from his master walked out another master. And another and another; until nine visions of the old man spread out before him. Each held a sword, each held an apple whose glow slowly faded, disappearing from his, their hands. Each took an offensive stance.

The invisible hands holding him up released, and he fell to the ground but not before he had seen what he needed to. Sword in hand he bowled through several masters to his left, grabbing an Al Mualim and shoving him down the steps to one of the lower levels. Several copies behind him struck at him, and he, too, fell down the steps to one of the lower levels. The one he had shoved was slow to get up and as Altair rolled into him, he extended his hidden blade and plunged it into his master.

He groaned, writhing in the ground, and Altair was overcome with the teacher of his boyhood, patting his head with strong hands, lecturing him about the ways of the Muslims and the ways of the Christians, scolding him when he did wrong, guiding him when he struggled. This man was a father to him, more so than his birth father ever was, and he had just _killed_ him...

Another Al Mualim grabbed him roughly and yanked him to his feet before throwing him into the crowd of others. Altair swung his sword in a wild arc, backing up, and struggling to give him room as eight copies of the man who had raised him moved in.

His heart was breaking, in some ways. He was being forced to fight this man whom he respected above all others, whom had taught him everything he knew. This was cruelty. Altair shuddered as an Al Mualim made a charge; the master assassin could only bring himself to circle the blade away and them hit him with the pommel of his sword, wrapped in his fists. Another tried to attack, and Altair deflected the angle, favoring to kick Al Mualim away instead of impale him. He could not do it. He could not kill his Master, it was too much...

A third managed to grab a hold of him, and before Altair could grab the fist and twist him away he was flung down the grassy hill to the lowest level of the garden. His shoulder screamed in protest as he tried to protect his broken fingers and his abdomen wound. Rolling up to his feet he saw the army of masters approach, and with a wince he made himself throw three knives; each hitting their mark and falling heavily to the ground. One rolled further down the hill, his dead face looking up to Altair.

He sucked in a deep breath and swung his sword at a fifth, concentrating on pushing past the emotional pain as well as the physical, and let his body perform the counter strike, a block of the sword followed by a punch to the elbow and then the head, to be followed up with a sword in the gut, but before Altair could deliver that final blow all of the masters disappeared; leaving only one, the one dead at his feet, to reach up and strike.

His sword impaled Altair, and he died all over again. Death reached out and caressed his weary body to welcome it.

He screamed.

Not yet! It was too soon! He could not fail Malik; and Jabal and the others, he could not let Masyaf fall to this possessed man, this perversion of his beloved teacher; he could not let that _damned_ treasure destroy everything!

Only he was back at the fountain on the upper terrace of the garden again, arms invisibly held spread eagle away from his sides, his toes barely touching the tile. He was panting, his heart was racing, and he could not understand what was happening to him. The pressure inside his mind had subsided briefly. There were no bodies on the ground, there was no blood on his robes, and all he could feel was the sting of Al Mualim's actions. Defeat struggled to take hold in his mind, but he would not allow it, focusing instead on his anger, on his pain, on anything but the idea of giving in.

Al Mualim paced before him, studying him.

"Have you any final words?" Cold, distant, apathetic. This was not the man who was pained and irate at Altair's betrayal, this was a stranger, a betrayer himself, and all Altair could feel was hurt.

"You lied to me," he said, unable to bear it any longer. "Called Robert's goals foul when all along they were yours as well."

The master simply shrugged his shoulders. "I've never been much good at sharing."

"You won't succeed," Altair said, shaking his head. The bonds around his body tightened but he resisted. "Others will find the strength to stand against you." Malik would not fail. Not after this.

And to Altair's surprise, Al Mualim sighed, lowering his head and shaking it in a way that was just like his master, not the mockery he had been fighting.

"And this is why so long as men maintain free will, there can be no peace."

Connections flew across Altair's mind, remembering the conversation before his assignment to Robert de Sable. _"What do he and his followers want? A world in which all men are united. I do not despise his goal. I share it."_ Robert would force peace upon the Holy Land by conquering everyone's will, with no will there would be no conflict. Al Mualim treasured this goal, treasured the peace.

"You said peace was to be learned, to be understood," he accused, still panting from his exertion.

"Yes," Al Mualim conceded. "I once thought so. And I tried; I tried so very hard. But men do not learn, they repeat the same mistakes over and over, and so drastic measures must be made to fix it. There can be no peace without authority, and so _I_ will be that authority."

So like de Sable. It was sickening. Ire rose in Altair, bloodlust giving him more energy.

"I killed the last man who spoke as such," he growled.

"Bold words, _boy_ ," Al Mualim growled back; the grandmaster leaning into the master assassin's personal space. "But just _words_."

"Then let me go, I'll put words into action."

After the dreadful display against the nine Al Mualims, after dying a second time, the master could only laugh at Altair's bluster. In proof, Altair was forced to agree; he was in no position to pose a threat as he was. But he would be _damned_ if he went down quietly. Learning from all his past experiences, putting on a broad display of arrogance, he goaded the old man, determined to provoke more, and use the deception to attain more knowledge. Perhaps he could learn a way to defeat him.

"Tell me, _Master_ ," he said, making the title a cruel mockery of his old respect. He _had_ no respect for this creature before him. "Why did you not make me like the other assassins? Why allow me to retain my mind?"

Al Mualim studied Altair a moment, taking the time to decide, before answering: "Who you are and what you do are twined too tight together. To rob you of one would have deprived me of the other; and those Templars had to die." He gave a deep, weary sigh, much like the master of his memory, and paced slightly. "But the truth is, I _did_ try, in my study, when I showed you the treasure. But you are not like the others. You saw through the illusion."

" 'Illusion?' " Everything in his body tensed, anticipation filling his mind.

"That's all it's ever done," Al Mualim said, his tone derisive, even petulant, "this Templar treasure, this Piece of Eden, this 'Word of God.' " He spat out the titles.

... An illusion. An _illusion_... The nine he killed and witnessed brought back to life, an illusion, the copies of his master attacking him, an illusion, the vision of his death, an _illusion_...

"Do you understand now?" his old master asked. "The Red Sea was never parted, water never turned to wine; it was not the machinations of Eris that spawned the Trojan War, but _this_." He held up the Piece of Eden, glowing golden, frustrated and inspired at the same time. "Illusions, all of them!" He made a grandiose gesture with his sword.

"What you plan is no less an illusion," Altair accused, "to force men to follow you against their will."

"Is it any _less_ real than the phantoms the Saracens and Crusaders follow now?" Al Mualim countered, determined to make his student see. Contempt filled his voice as he spoke of the religions. "Those _craven_ gods who retreat from this world that men might _slaughter_ one another in their names? They live amongst an illusion already!" He shook his head, eyeing the treasure. "I'm simply giving them another, one that demands less blood."

"At least they choose these phantoms." Choice was everything. It was the core of the assassins; it was what mattered. That Al Mualim, the Teacher, the _Master_ had given up on all of it, had chosen brute force...!

"Oh, do they? Aside from the occasional convert or heretic?"

He was mincing words now. Altair pulled against his invisible restraint.

"It isn't _right_!"

"Ah," Al Mualim said, "and now logic has left you; in its place you embrace emotion." He squared his feet, turning a sad face to the master assassin. "I am disappointed in you," he said simply. Softly.

The moment hung between them. Master disappointed in student, student furious with the master.

"... What's to be done then?" Altair demanded.

"You will not follow me, and I cannot compel you."

"And you refuse to give up this evil scheme!" Altair spat.

"It seems then, that we are at an impasse."

"No," Altair hissed. "We are at an _end_."

The grandmaster of the Assassin Order sighed, tucking the treasure into a pouch at his belt. "I will miss you, Altair." He took an offensive stance. "You were my very best student."

The bond released, and Altair quickly drew his sword. Al Mualim was fresh, had not fought yet, while the day’s events had worn Altair down, filling him with small or serious injuries, ripped at his heart, and tore at his stamina. The student and the master circled each other; gauging, assessing, trying to bait or intimidate. Neither would fall for it, however, and so Al Mualim, who had chosen the treasure, who had chosen brute force, attacked first. Altair circled the blade away and, wrapping both fists around the hilt of his sword, slammed the pommel of his sword into his master. One of his broken fingers cracked further under the strain, but it was worth it to see the old man fall.

But Al Mualim disappeared in a burst of light, and suddenly there was a piercing screech in his ears, high pitched and throbbing, ringing in unison with the pressure, the whispering, in his head. His shoulder ached anew; pulsing pain through is body as his abdomen burned. His vision blurred, became foggy and out of focus. Every punch, cut, blow, fall he had been subjected to over the day overtook him, and he fell shakily to his knees. Breathing was difficult, his heart raced, and he fought against a sudden gag reflex as he gasped for air.

_"Blind Altair. Blind is all you've ever been, all you'll ever be."_

An illusion, Altair reminded himself through the pain, ignoring his master's disembodied voice. Just an illusion, a trick of the mind, and the mind was most revered in the Assassin Order. The mind was taught, trained, to pierce the veil, to transcend the illusion. Nothing was true, everything was permitted, and so Altair permitted himself to see past the illusion. His eagle spread its wings in his mind, flooding through his body, heightening everything. Feathers danced across his fingertips and talons stretched around his toes. He was the eagle, in air, in _flight_ , and he would swoop down and kill his prey.

The pain subsided, the piercing shriek in his ears dulled, and the pressure in his mind lessened. He looked around the fountain, but Al Mualim was not there, and so he leapt down to the middle terrace, but his eagle saw nothing there, either.

Jumping to the lowest terrace, his eagle eyes spotted the golden glow of the apple, the golden glow of his _target_ , and he painfully pulled out a throwing knife and tossed it.

"My blade sees for me, Al Mualim," Altair said confidently, his every sense on fire with information and instinct. The knife hit its mark, but not directly, digging into his master's arm. "It cuts through the dark."

He swung at the old man, the strike blocked, but Altair predicted the counter strike and blocked it, kicking the teacher in the gut.

He disappeared again, with a grunt this time, and the pain and noise enveloped Altair again. But his eagle was strong, _he_ was strong, and so he looked around, marching through the garden to find his target. The clouds finally broke and sunlight filled the garden, and as Altair made his way up to the highest terrace he saw his master, glowing gold and obvious for anyone who could see.

He threw another knife. It struck him in the leg and the pain and noise subsided, as did more of the pressure in his mind.

Al Mualim stumbled slightly but he compensated for it quickly, moving fluidly into a strike that Altair blocked, taking a step forward and shoving his shoulder into his master, knocking him aside. Once more the noise appeared, as did the pain, but the intensity was less, and his eagle had a much easier time shrugging it off. He knew he was winning. With confidence he moved to the far end of the upper terrace, past the fountain and pulled out another throwing knife, striking his master's other leg.

Their next bout lasted slightly longer. Al Mualim was cautious now, his confidence dying, and took the more traditional defensive stance. That suited the master assassin just _fine_ , however, and he allowed the old man to block a few of the strikes, letting him think himself secure, before countering a counterstrike, swinging his sword in to break an arm before the old man disappeared yet again.

"Curse you, Altair!"

There was no noise, no pain, no blurring of vision.

This was it then, the final strike. Altair listened, heard a grunt of pain and placed the direction, hopping down to the main fountain of the garden and moving to swing his sword. Al Mualim countered at the last moment, and followed up with a brutal kick between Altair's legs, but the master assassin refused to let the pain affect him, his eagle was one with him now; he would never let his senses be clouded again.

The grandmaster gave a vicious swing, but Altair blocked it and kicked his master in the abdomen.

He did not disappear, and Altair threw his sword aside, extending his hidden blade, and leapt upon his target. It sunk into the man's chest, below the heart and into the lung, and Al Mualim gasped, somehow surprised. The apple fell out of his hands, rolling away.

"... Impossible," he gasped, his eyes following the little ball. He looked up, confused, to Altair. "The student does not defeat the teacher."

" _Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine,_ " Altair responded softly. Simply. It was the very nature of the Creed, it was what he had learned for the last two seasons. It was what he would follow for the rest of his life: Nothing is true; everything is permitted.

"... So it seems," the grandmaster said, pensive. He looked to the master assassin again. "You have won, then. Go, and claim your prize."

"You held fire in your hand, old man. It should have been destroyed."

He smiled, somewhat sadly. "Destroy the only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never."

So even now, dying, he still betrayed the Creed. "Then I will," he vowed.

"... We'll see about that."

Altair set his master down, gently in honor of the memories of what he once was, in honor of what he stood for before it was all destroyed. He crossed the tiles, to the corner where the silver globe lay. Harmless.

Though dead, he could still hear his Master's voice.

_"I have applied my heart to know wisdom; and to know madness and folly. I perceive that this also was a chasing of the wind."_ To Altair's surprise, the little silver ball began to glow, despite no hand holding it. Soft light emanated from it, and Altair once more felt the pressure in his mind, the whispering. _"For in much wisdom, there is much grief. And he who increaseth knowledge, inscreaseth sorrow..."_

He feet slowed of their own volition, Altair came to a stop as the treasure emitted a stronger glow, a golden globe if light appearing above it, the globe outlined in odd shapes, spinning slowly. Dots of light flickered at certain locations, and Altair watched, transfixed. His eyes locked onto the Palestinian coast, and he realized what he was looking at. It was the earth! But, there were three, no, four extra landmasses, and what did the lights signify? One was in Jerusalem, another in Giza, one in England, and so many others...

_"Destroy it!"_ Al Mualim's voice whispered, sounding only a breath away from his ear. _"Destroy it as you said you would."_

Altair fought his body, tried to bend down, release his hidden blade, draw his short sword, something, but his body was still as he was filled with awe. The whispers became louder; he could make out dissonant words, names, faces, places, events, people, time, _prophecy_. His breath caught, and he tried again.

"I... I can't..."

_"Yes, you can Altair,"_ his old master said, sounding somehow sad. _"But you won't."_

"Altair!"

The master assassin could hear, faintly, the voice of his best friend. He turned to see Malik, flanked with two journeymen running up to him, all three staring at the dimensional picture of the earth.

"Malik," Altair whispered. His voice was tight; breathing was becoming difficult, all his wounds hurt. "Do you see this?"

"I... I do. What is it? What does it mean?"

All of them beheld the globe, and Altair thought he heard, somewhere whispered in his mind, _This is not for you. It is for they who will watch._

Altair looked down to see blood staining his robes; his stab wound bleeding. Had it been open this whole time? When had...

He collapsed.

"Altair!"

_"We've got it!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, where to begin.
> 
> Mirror, when she read this, said it was very "edge of your seat." Hopefully you readers had the same experience. This is one of the best memories of the game - for me at least, because of the atmosphere. Between starting out with the camera tilted to show the world isn't quite right, to the zombie-masses following you wherever you go, to Malik, to the fact that the boss fight takes place under a cloudy sky to enhance the dark grey fate of Masyaf, it all comes together in a great sequence. We can only hope we did this memory homage.
> 
> And now you all understand why we took so much time populating Altair's world - it was to watch everybody he ever met attack him in this last sequence. Poor Zamil and Stephan... (sniff) The theory we went with was that everybody under Al Mualim's control fought with Al Mualim's ability - regardless of rank and training. For the apprentices and journeymen, their lack of muscle memory would affect their moves slightly, but not enough for a shocked and heartbroken Altair to notice and take advantage of. Stephan actually did use a standard blade, but his muscles weren't developed enough to have the strength to puncture all those layers of leather and get deep enough to be fatal.
> 
> There is a distinct difference in Altair by this point: in the Templar attack at the beginning of the game he was fighting recklessly and with abandon, savage and just about without thought. Now he is the opposite: desperate to avoid the fight, trying not to kill anyone, and torn over what he was being forced to do. And aren't we all glad he finally made it!
> 
> Malik's sequence was expanded slightly, first with the inclusion of Jabal (since the AC wiki says he's here somewhere) but most importantly with Altair's final favor. All you readers who wanted more in Jerusalem, we hope this filled your need! If that still doesn't satisfy your Malik-craving, then you can check out our new fic, Best Years of the Order. That's done entirely from his POV. Part one is already up.
> 
> As for Al Mualim, well, we think that fight speaks for itself.
> 
> All that's left is the epilogue. Gee, wonder what could be happening there...?


	26. Epilogue: Everything is Permitted

The visor pulled back and Desmond blinked at the lab's ceiling. That was... That had been... "What the _hell_ was that?" he demanded, starting to get up. Movement out of the corner of his eye made him still partway, however, as he turned to his right and saw three men in the conference room. One bald and in a tailored suit and two behind him looking more like bodyguards.

"... Well?" the bald man asked, his eyes focused solely on Vidic.

"We've got the map," the old man replied.

Desmond felt his blood chill. The map. _That_ was what they were after. A map to all the _other_ fucking Pieces of Eden. Oh it suddenly made so much sense. It wasn't that Altair had _found_ other little silver balls; it was that he had seen a map. One he hadn't recognized outside of Europe and Africa and the Palestinian coast, but one that Desmond, of course, _did_.

"How many?" the bald man asked over the intercom.

Vidic smiled. "At least half a dozen."

Desmond glanced back and forth. That wasn't a half dozen! The map flashed around in Desmond's head, spinning slowly with each dotted glow of a location and he knew that there were closer to fifty places on that map. Good God, how many did Abstergo even have? To only see a half dozen new ones?

The bald man frowned. "We don't need them all."

"We can assume some amount of decay," Vidic replied. "I can't imagine they'll all still be functioning." Desmond sat up, eyes still going back and forth. "At least two appear to reside on landmasses that no longer exist."

"We'll dispatch teams to each site and determine viability. We only need _one_ after all."

They had enough experience with these things that they could even "determine viability"? Something cold was working its way down Desmond's spine and latching onto any organ it could find.

"What about the rest?" Vidic asked.

"Collect them," the bald man replied. "Let's not leave anything to chance. Last thing we need is some damn survivor making trouble for us in the New World."

Survivor? Did they mean someone unaffected by mind-control or the literal meaning of "survivor"?

"And the Assassin?" Vidic smiled.

"We have what we need. Kill him."

_Dammit!_

Lucy stepped forward from behind her terminal. "Wait!" Desmond, Vidic, and the bald man stared at her. With a small breath she calmly stated, "You know how these things work. I _doubt_ we'll be able to walk right in."

"What's your point?" the bald man asked. Suddenly Desmond had a theory on who the bald man was: Alan Rikkin. No proof other than he was in the conference room with Rikkin's email, but Desmond couldn't help but wonder.

"We might need him," Lucy answered. Vidic took one step forward, but Lucy continued, "His memories. I'd recommend we hold him until we have confirmation that there aren't any surprises waiting for us at the sites."

Vidic gave a loud scoff. "This is a _waste of time_."

Lucy turned and shot right back, "You said it yourself. We shouldn't leave anything to chance."

"Very well," Rikkin nodded. "Ensure we have no further need of him, _then_ kill him."

"Fine," Vidic grumbled.

Rikkin turned sharply on his heel and marched out, his two henchmen following. Things were silent as they left, but once the door closed behind them in the conference room, Vidic turned and stepped right into Lucy's personal space. " _Stop undermining my authority_!" he hissed.

"I just saved your ass!" she yelled back.

Face twisted in anger, Vidic growled, "Let's go," before starting to walk away. "We've got a lot of work to do." He paused by Desmond. "Don't get too comfortable, Mr. Miles," he said pointedly. "We'll be back for _you_ soon enough."

Vidic set off at a strong pace, Lucy only offering the tiniest of glances in his direction as she hurried past to keep up with him.

Desmond watched her go and wanted, desperately, to _see_ a way _out_ of all of this. To _somehow_ find _some_ way to _fly_ out of here, to _soar_ free again. Lucy, _good friend_ that she had proven to be, had bought him _time_ , but aside from that he _saw_ no good. If only he could somehow _reach out_ and...

Desmond looked down to the floor. _What the hell is that?_ There was a pentagram in a circle right at his feet, glowing read. He quickly looked over to Lucy and Vidic as they were hastily making an exit and saw the _red aura of an enemy_ that encompassed Vidic and the _white aura of an ally_ that framed Lucy. There was more red on the floor, pictures and letters. Looking around, there were all sorts of things and Desmond just stared.

He walked past the foot of the Animus, looking at a triangle of neat rows and columns with letters.

Desmond looked, his mind switching to codes the Assassin's used that he remembered to try and read what it was. It took the better part of an hour, but once he basically flipped how he read to right-to-left and down-to-up, he felt the chill in his chest increase manifold.

THEY DRAINED MY SOUL AND MADE IT THEIRS I DRAIN MY BODY TO SHOW YOU WHERE I SAW IT

This was... this was... A previous subject was trying to communicate. An Assassin. Or a descendant of one that had learned Assassin codes. Looking around, Desmond saw the Nazca lines of South America, the monkey, the bird, and the spider. "... to show you where I saw it..." Was this a place for a Piece of Eden? Desmond looked around some more glowing red drawings as his sight continued to act strange. There was a landscape of some sort. Mountains and some sort of... farming steppes? But it didn't look like steppes. Plateaus of some kind? There looked to be a Mayan pyramid nearby, which leant itself to Desmond's thought of a Piece of Eden being in South America.

Shaking his head, he went in front of the conference room he saw the pentagram along with Japanese _torii,_ tall Japanese castles, a mountain and moon, and English letters spelling out Yona guni.

The splatters in the pentagram were really starting to creep Desmond out but he didn't want to think about it.

By the other computer bank he saw three triangles and their placement reminded Desmond of the Egyptian pyramids, and the Eye of Horus seemed to validate the thought. But the next glowing red that caught Desmond's eyes were over a triangle filled with eyes that held a glowing apple atop it. And, instead of a triangle, there was a square of text. Desmond moved around to orient himself.

Once again, the neat rows and columns reminded Desmond of Assassin codes and he read it the same way he did the triangle. From the bottom right and reading up.

ARTIFACTS SENT TO THE SKIES TO CONTROL ALL NATIONS TO MAKE US OBEY A HIDDEN CRUSADE DO NOT HELP THEM

In this, at least, Desmond agreed. He sure as hell wouldn't help them. Above the square was an Illuminati pyramid with an eye in it.

Christ it was like every conspiracy theory Desmond had ever even _heard_ of was true. He shook his head again and suddenly his vision was back to normal. He blinked, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened and if what he had seen was really there or not.

He looked around the lab, not seeing any of the red writing and Desmond couldn't help but wonder if his mind was snapping. How else did he _see_ something that _wasn't there_?

Blinking, the writing and pictures were all back and Desmond sucked in a breath sharply. But with another blink it was all gone.

As if the chill of everything that he had learned thus far wasn't enough to make him shiver, Desmond felt his stomach dropping as he wondered if he was entirely sane any more. He quickly went to Lucy's computer, anxious to see if there were any reports about subjects and their mental stability.

After almost two hours of digging through the same files he'd been staring at for nights, he gave up and went to Vidic's computer. He led this damn operation, certainly he would have _something_.

By habit, Desmond checked Vidic's email first, and found an email from Lucy that he hadn't seen in her outbox or deleted folder.

_Subject: Subject No. 16_

_Warren:_

_I've finished my report on Subject Sixteen. You should take a look when you have some time as I believe it validates my belief that we need to be treating them with greater care. Failure to do so will only result in further breakdowns._

_I'll summarize things for now since I realize you're probably pretty busy. Prolonged exposure to the Animus cause a "Bleeding Effect" within Subject Sixteen's genetic structure. The result was a blending of genetic and real-time memory. He became unable to distinguish his own life from those of his ancestors, as witnessed by the incident in his room._

_I believe this effect is very similar to certain forms of multiple personality and delusional disorders. People who claim to be experiencing past lives or the presence of other minds within their own are quite possibly experiencing a naturally occurring version of this Bleeding Effect. Though the specific symptoms may vary from subject to subject, the end result is the same: they lose their minds._

_This is what I believe happened to Subject Sixteen. One of his ancestors seems to have been involved in an important event in the ancient Far East. The wall writings he left us defy any conventional explanation, though I'm not ready to dismiss them just yet. Per your request, I've asked for a linguist and historian to research them further in case there is some significance. I'll let you know if they come back to us with anything._

_I'll get you a full copy of the report so that you can review my findings when you have the time. I know this is not that important to you Warren, but it would mean a lot to me if you'd just take a look and think about it. We don't need to push them so hard. We don't need to kill them. From a purely practical perspective, there's no point in destroying the subjects anyway. Once they're dead, their knowledge is lost to us forever. And we both know how dangerous that can be._

_Thanks for your time!_

_-Lucy_

A "Bleeding Effect". Where historical memories mingled with the Subject. Desmond leaned forward, burying his head into his hands, letting the information roll around in his mind.

He was going to go slowly insane. Christ. He already _was_ going insane! He'd lose who he was to Altair. Hell, maybe he _should_ because Altair at least would know how to kill these Templar bastards. But how long? What did they do to Subject Sixteen that lead to this Bleeding Effect and the insanity? And what the hell did that have to do with Altair seeing what wasn't there?

Desmond heard an eagle's cry deep in his mind and out of an instinct that Altair had honed to perfection, he focused on the sharp vision of an eagle and reached for that part of his mind and...

Desmond saw the glowing red again. Standing he looked around, saw the codes and pictures. He let go of the eagle, sending thanks for the assistance, and the room returned to looking as it always had.

Reach for the Eagle's Vision and the room shined with red letters, let go of the eagle and it was back to normal.

Ignoring the possibility of insanity, Desmond couldn't quite help uttering, "Cool..."

He reached for the eagle again and started studying the pictures and messages again, trying to remember all the conspiracies he'd heard of and how they might connect to whatever these messages meant. Desmond worked hard to stay off the grid after all, and that led him to a few conspiracy websites to get information that he needed to stay hidden. He had never paid much attention, only a passing glance as he got what he needed before going back to his solitary life. Now he wished he looked more.

The Nazca lines had a conspiracy about aliens. Something about how they were only visible as animals from the air and flight was only a century old. Egypt, similarly, had a ton of theories, some about aliens, some about actual historical Egyptology, to say nothing of the curse of the Mummy, though Desmond doubted that was relevant. Japan had its own mysticism stuff that Desmond never looked at, but these seemed to reference places more than the conspiracies behind them.

Desmond rubbed the back of his head, getting tired from continuously looking at the symbols and pictures, trying to figure things out without enough information or even the ability to go online to look up references.

Dinner eventually came, startling Desmond out of his Eagle Vision, but that was fine. The food helped his headache and he was just grateful to actually be _able_ to eat. And the meal had all the earmarks of Lucy's interference. For starters it was a hot meal, some actual protein, and was just damn good. Desmond wasn't sure when he'd get a chance to eat something like this again, but that didn't matter worth a damn to being able to have a good meal.

He left the tray, since usually Lucy would take care of it but she wasn't there, and it wasn't like Desmond could leave and handle it himself, so he went to his room, intent on a shower and then bed to try and think about how to use this Eagle Vision for escape, the codes and pictures all around the lab, and avoid thinking about his impending insanity.

Walking into his room, an eagle screeched in his mind and Desmond switched to Eagle Vision on Altair's reflex.

"Oh my _god_..."

There was more... More writing... All along the wall behind his bed.

_We are all books containing thousands of pages and within each of them lies an IRREPARABLE truth_

_I've entered the Abyss and never returned_

_Within Emperor Jiajang's sin and_

_Quetzcoaltz's Hunger lies the Answers_

The Omega symbol, lots of Chinese (Japanese?) characters, Arabic that Desmond could suddenly _read_ ( _Al Zalzala_ : Armageddon), a mathematical formula ( _Zm = Zn^z + C_ ), strange mix of numbers (.0 and 22:13), none of these made sense.

But centered right above his headboard, was a butterfly. Sort of. But it reminded Desmond of a butterfly and given all the conspiracy writings, the Butterfly Effect came to mind.

Butterfly Effect. Bleeding Effect.

Bleeding...

Desmond looked at the glowing red and looked not at the symbols and words it created, but rather the red itself. It looked like... Was that... _blood_?

... _BLOOD_?

Who the _hell_ were they keeping there before Desmond? What the hell happened to him? What did this all mean? Why did his predecessor write all over the lab and his room in his _own_ blood?

And then Desmond remembered his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le Gasp, oh, no a cliffhanger! Like this shocks anyone who's played the game.
> 
> It as tempting to explain all the little conspiracies surrounding the symbols in Desmond's lab, but there's no way he could know all of it - it was kind of a stretch for him to know what he did. Partly because he's lived a sheltered life on the farm with a not-standard education, but also because Desmond reads as not particularly bright (sorry Des-fans, but it's true in our opinion). He has a sharper learning curve - especially compared to someone as educated as Altair or even Ezio (we say "even" because we're under the distinct impression Ezio didn't pay much attention to his education as a kid...). And so we left some of the symbols a mystery, and let you all figure out what they are.
> 
> And... that is Rikken, right? At the end?
> 
> And so AC1 is now closed, and reviewers (all three of you) are already asking about doing sequels for AC2. For the record that game presents a whole string of challenges because some memory sequences span years, or there are entire gaps from one memory to the next. There's also Desmond, of course, and figuring out just how long he and the others are stuck in that warehouse, blah blah whine whine. Having said all that, we've decided to do it. So yes, there will be an AC2 Novelization in the horizon.
> 
> In light of that, please keep in mind it's the school year and we're both substitutes, there's not a lot of time to do the kind of intensive writing a game novelization takes (as we learned the hard way). We'll likely start that project in the summer, so heaven knows when it will come out here on ff . net. But rest assured it IS coming.

**Author's Note:**

> To say we love the game is something of an understatement. We have both tossed around the idea of novelizing the game for a long time. It's been a daunting thought, given how long the game is and the logistics of just how to novelize it. We've read the Brotherhood book, but we were both disappointed with it and how it didn't jive with our sense of Ezio. Ergo we assume (and yes, it's an assumption) that any novelizations in print for Altair's story aren't as good as the game.
> 
> So, last June, while still debating whether or not to novelize this, that I (Mirror) had a long-term sub job and Image had more free time. I told her to give start it as a test run and see how it went. When I came home I was very pleasantly surprised by what I read. (See above...) And thus, I got sucked into agreeing to write this. Now, one-hundred-sixty pages later, Image is having a blast writing the investigations for Abu'l Noquod and I'm eagerly waiting to write the assassination for Abu'l Noquod.
> 
> We just know people will start asking for Assassin's Creed II... And the logistics of that since it takes place over decades is just a nightmare... 8(
> 
> But for now, we're having great fun. Hope all of you do as well.


End file.
